SHIP 


t 


RALPH   D 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


THE  WEAPON  BOUNCED  FROM  THE  SKULL  OF  THE  TOUGHENED 
WARRIOR  (page  134) 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Stories  of  the  American  Navy 
in  the  Great  War 

By  RALPH  D.  PAINE 

With  Illustrations 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,   1918,   IQTQ,  AND  IQ20,  BY  STREET  &  SMITH   CORPORATION 
COPYRIGHT,    1920,   BY   RALPH   D.   PAINE 

ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  1 

TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  33 

Too  SCARED  TO  RUN  63 

THE  QUIET  LIFE  95 

ON  A  LEE  SHORE  127 

THE  NET  RESULT  158 

THE  LAST  SHOT  189 

THE  SILENT  SERVICE  227 

THE  RED  SECTOR  283 


M31048O 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE    WEAPON    BOUNCED    FROM    THE    SKULL    OF    THE 

TOUGHENED  WARRIOR  Frontispiece 

WHEN  DAYLIGHT  BROKE,  THE  GALE  THAT  LASHED  THB 
NORTH  SEA  WAS  TEMPESTUOUS  26 

JERRY  DRIFTED  so  CLOSE  ALONGSIDE,  HOWEVER,  THAT 

THE  SIGNS  OF  LIFE  WERE  UNMISTAKABLE  80 

IT  SEEMED  ALMOST  TO  STAND  ON  END  218 

Drawn  by  Stanley  Rogers 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON 

IN  time  of  war  the  Navy  shows  a  sly  dislike  of  pub 
licity  and  its  operations  are  mostly  "hush  stuff." 
This  was  why  a  division  of  American  battleships 
said  nothing  about  it  at  home  when  they  rolled  out 
into  the  winter  gales  of  the  Atlantic  and  presently 
loomed  through  the  mists  of  the  North  Sea.  The 
Grand  Fleet  welcomed  them  as  comrades  in  the  long 
and  weary  task  of  holding  safe  in  check  the  sullen 
German  squadrons  which  had  ceased  to  brag  of  "Der 
Tag.'9  Splendidly  powerful,  the  big  ships  dropped 
anchor  in  the  Firth  of  Forth  and  the  starry  ensign 
flamed  against  the  bleak  hills  of  Scotland. 

They  had  been  battered  and  swept  by  wicked 
weather  and  the  voyage  was  a  tale  of  flooded  decks 
and  splintered  boats,  of  incessant  toil  and  discomfort. 
Now  came  a  brief  respite  before  steaming  farther 
north  to  begin  their  vigil  amid  the  lonely  Orkney 
Islands.  Several  thousand  American  sailors  were 
aware  of  the  fact  that  the  Christmas  season  was 
close  at  hand,  which  made  their  exile  seem  the  more 
remote.  There  was  a  sentimental  eagerness  for  shore 
liberty  in  Edinburgh,  not  to  get  drunk,  but  to 
squander  their  pay  on  souvenir  gifts  for  the  folks 
at  home. 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


Among  the  twelve  hundred  men  aboard  the  flag 
ship  you  could  have  found  no  more  ardent  champion 
of  the  holiday  spirit  than  Henry  Turnbull,  boat 
swain's  mate,  who  was  commonly  called  "Bugs." 
This  surging  enthusiasm  was  illogical  and  unexpected. 
It  perplexed  all  hands.  He  was  a  slow,  stubborn  per 
son  of  few  words  and  fewer  friends,  mild-mannered 
enough  unless  goaded  too  far,  when  the  raw-boned 
frame  and  hairy  fists  were  a  persuasive  argument. 
When  off  duty  he  was  usually  reading  some  book 
from  the  ship's  library  or  picked  up  in  a  second-hand 
shop,  scowling  at  the  pages  with  earnest  interest  and 
muttering  the  words  aloud. 

His  faithful  chum,  his  right  bower,  was  unlike 
him,  of  course.  The  peppery,  quick-witted  Jim  Cooney 
was  all  that  a  petty  officer  ought  to  be  —  a  brisk 
little  man  with  a  blue  eye  that  bored  like  a  gimlet. 
When  he  rasped  out  a  command  there  was  no  dilly 
dallying.  He  bullied  "Bugs"  Turnbull  outrageously, 
and  their  quarrels  diverted  the  gun  deck,  but  they 
had  been  inseparable  through  two  enlistments. 

These  two  were  standing  together  in  the  lee  of  a 
turret  while  the  liberty  parties  swarmed  down  into 
the  string  of  sailing  cutters,  and  the  launches  towed 
them  toward  the  landing  pier  at  Rosyth.  The  hun 
dreds  of  bluejackets  were  in  high  spirits  at  this  re 
lease  from  long  confinement  within  steel  walls  and 
Henry  Turnbull,  boatswain's  mate,  gazed  after  them, 
so  much  melancholy  written  upon  his  homely  linea 
ments  that  Jim  Cooney  exclaimed: 

"Cry,   why  don't  you?  Lay  your  head  on  my 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  3 

shoulder  and  weep  it  out,  you  big  turnip!  You  're 
due  to  hit  the  beach  to-morrow.  What's  eating  you? 
Honest,  if  I  had  your  disposition  I  'd  blow  out  my 
brains." 

"It's  this  Christmas  stuff,  Jim,"  was  the  wistful 
reply.  "I'm  all  worked  up  about  it.  You  see,  I  want 
to  get  ashore  so  I  can  buy  a  Santa  Glaus  outfit  — 
white  whiskers  and  all  the  gadgets  —  sleigh-bells 
and  tricks  for  a  tree,  and  colored  paper  to  fake  up  a 
fireplace  with  stockings  hangin'  in  it." 

"Read  it  in  a  book,  did  you,  Bugs?" 

"Maybe.  I  don't  know  when  I've  been  so  excited 
over  anything.  I  figure  on  playing  Santa  Glaus,  and 
you  can  bet  it'll  make  our  bunch  of  hard-shells  feel 
like  innocent  boys  again." 

Jim  Cooney,  gunner's  mate,  shook  his  head  in 
mock  sorrow,  and  said  with  a  laugh: 

"It  would  take  more  than  that  J;o  sweeten  the 
bunch  of  young  thugs  in  your  division,  Bugs,  my  lad. 
If  you're  so  anxious  to  make  a  real  hit  on  Christmas 
Eve,  why  don't  you  drop  down  inside  a  funnel  and 
pop  out  of  a  furnace  door?  On  the  level,  you  ought 
to  lay  off  reading  books.  Your  mind  is  n't  strong 
enough  to  digest  'em.  A  month  or  so  ago  you  were 
try  in'  to  convince  me  that  the  world  is  flat." 

"They  were  powerful  arguments,  Jim.  I  got  all 
stirred  up  about  it.  I  can't  help  feeling  that  she 
really  is  flat." 

"Then  how  in  hell  did  you  go  round  the  world 
with  the  battleship  fleet  in  the  old  Michigan  with 
out  sailin'  plumb  over  the  edge?" 


4  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"I  forget  the  answer  to  that,"  confessed  the  boat 
swain's  mate;  "but  what  has  it  got  to  do  with 
celebratin'  Christmas?" 

"You  can  search  me,  unless  it's  because  you  get 
afflicted  with  one  bug  after  another.  You  are  all 
theory.  That's  what  ails  you.  Here  I  am,  with  a 
wife  and  two  kids  in  Jersey  City,  and  they  don't  even 
know  where  I  am.  I  could  n't  even  slip  'em  word 
that  this  blistered  old  battle-wagon  had  decided  to 
poke  her  nose  into  the  war.  I'm  the  bird  that  ought 
to  be  boiling  over  with  all  these  Christmas  emotions. 
Where  do  you  head  in,  with  no  kin  on  earth  closer 
than  a  step-uncle,  and  home  is  wherever  you  sling 
a  hammock?" 

"It  was  poetry  that  I  read  last,"  patiently  ex 
plained  Henry  Turnbull.  "Poetry  has  a  kick  to  it. 
And  this  particular  book  got  under  my  shirt." 

"Like  a  case  of  measles,"  grumbled  the  gunner's 
mate.  "The  men  tell  me  you  're  a  Christmas  nuisance. 
Nobody  ever  dreamed  you'd  behave  this  way  and 
they  can't  understand  it." 

"Anxious  to  make  others  happy,  do  you  mean, 
Jim?  It's  my  duty.  The  poet  says  so.  And  if  you 
try  to  stop  me  from  being  happy  and  kind,  I  '11  bust 
you  one  on  the  jaw." 

"Make  one  swing,  you  mush-head,  and  you'll 
be  the  sickest  Santa  Claus  that  was  ever  rammed  into 
an  ambulance  instead  of  a  chimney,"  was  the  fiery 
retort  of  the  little  gunner's  mate  as  he  stood  poised 
upon  his  toes. 

The  trill  of  a  boatswain's  pipe  summoned  them 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  5 

to  duty  and  the  crisis  was  averted.  Amiably  enough 
they  went  off  together  next  day  in  a  liberty  boat 
and  were  permitted  to  ramble  through  the  storied 
streets  of  Edinburgh.  The  war  had  not  exhausted 
the  stocks  of  Scotch  whiskey,  and  there  was  no  law 
against  drinking  in  uniform,  but  this  pair  of  blue 
jackets  tarried  briefly  in  a  pub,  merely  to  wash  down 
the  dust.  Cooney  might  have  lingered  a  bit  longer, 
but  his  tall  comrade  had  business  more  urgent.  They 
wandered  on  arm  in  arm,  Cooney  in  an  insulting 
mood  and  protesting  that  he  was  being  kidnaped. 

They  halted  in  front  of  a  toy  shop  whose  window 
display  was  pitifully  meager,  but  Henry  Turnbull 
beamed  with  joy  and  waved  a  hand  at  the  rosy 
effigy  of  Santa  Glaus  which  seemed  to  smile  back  at 
him.  He  surged  inside,  dragging  his  reluctant  partner, 
and  the  lass  behind  the  counter  greeted  them  with 
a  pretty  reference  to  hands  across  the  sea.  It  was  a 
sair  shame,  said  she,  that  the  censor  would  not  let 
the  people  of  England  know  aboot  the  braw,  great 
battleships  and  grand  sailors  that  had  come  over 
from  America  to  help  smash  the  Hun.  Henry  Turn- 
bull  blushed  and  began  to  make  his  purchases  on  a 
reckless  scale.  Cooney  became  absorbed  in  trying  to 
play  "Annie  Laurie"  on  a  tin  whistle. 

He  stopped  on  a  high  note,  jumped  to  his  feet,  and 
stood  in  an  attitude  of  frozen  attention  as  a  broad- 
shouldered,  elderly  naval  officer  entered  the  shop. 
His  massive,  wind-reddened  face  wore  a  genial  expres 
sion.  The  stars  on  the  collar  of  his  blouse  indicated 
his  rank  as  that  of  an  American  rear  admiral,  and 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


as  he  returned  the  salute  of  the  startled  gunner's 
mate,  the  latter  whispered  in  a  swift  aside: 

"Snap  it  out,  Bugs,  you  boob !  Here's  the  main  guy. 
Where's  your  manners?" 

Henry  whirled  at  the  warning  and  his  hand  flew 
to  his  cap.  The  admiral  noted  that  the  two  petty 
officers  came  from  his  flagship  and  also  that  he  had 
interrupted  a  shopping  tour.  The  Christmas  spirit 
warmed  his  smile  and  also  betrayed  itself  in  his 
chuckle  as  he  exclaimed : 

"You  beat  me  to  it,  boys!  Anything  left,  or  have 
you  made  a  clean  sweep?" 

"I'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  dicker  with  this 
buddy  of  mine  if  I  leave  him  here  any  longer,  sir," 
answered  Jim  Cooney,  indicating  the  prodigal  Henry. 
"As  Santa  Claus  he  just  naturally  aims  to  be  the 
whole  works.  It's  his  failing." 

The  admiral  appeared  alarmed  at  this,  and  ambled 
to  the  counter  to' inspect  the  operations  of  the  abashed 
Henry,  who  courteously  stammered: 

"If  you  want  any  of  this  plunder,  sir,  please  go  as 
far  as  you  like.  Cooney  and  I  will  cruise  up  the  street 
and  look  for  another  store." 

"No  use,"  replied  the  admiral.  "I  have  tried 
them  all.  I  can't  find  toys  enough  to  go  round,  but 
I  did  hope  to  get  a  Santa  Claus  outfit  and  some  gew 
gaws  for  a  tree." 

"I  just  bought  the  last  lot  of  'em,  all  complete," 
eagerly  cried  Henry  Turnbull,  "but  I  hereby  waive 
my  claim.  Wade  in  and  help  yourself,  if  you  please, 
sir," 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON   7 

His  unselfishness  was  heroic,  but  there  was  healing 
balm  in  the  thought  that  he  had  been  vindicated  in 
the  sight  of  the  cynical  Jim  Cooney.  If  a  rear  admiral 
desired  to  play  Santa  Glaus,  the  pastime  was  cer 
tainly  worthy  and  proper  for  an  enlisted  man.  Cooney 
snickered  and  meekly  raised  his  hands  in  token  of 
surrender. 

The  admiral  rubbed  his  double  chin  in  a  thoughtful 
manner  and  his  eyes  twinkled  as  he  said  to  Henry: 

"Tell  me  more  about  it.  Didn't  I  hear  some  of 
the  men  riding  you  a  bit  aboard-ship  —  about  your 
violent  explosion  of  Christmas  spirit?" 

"He  was  taken  acute  with  it  several  days  ago, 
sir  -  "  interjected  Cooney,  with  a  grin. 

"Shut  up,  you  pest!"  snarled  Henry,  who  went  on 
to  say  in  milder  tones,  "I  got  filled  up  chock-ablock 
with  poetry,  sir,  and  we  're  a  long  way  from  home  and 
fireside  and  all  that  we  hold  dear  —  and  you  know 
how  it  is,  a  man  gets  sick  of  chewin'  over  the  war  all 
the  time  —  and  I  decided  to  shoot  a  little  Christmas 
cheer  into  the  old  battle-wagon." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  know  how  it  is,"  said  the  admiral, 
and  his  voice  was  a  shade  pensive.  "I  have  a  notion 
that  we  can  adjust  this  difficulty  to  our  mutual 
satisfaction.  I  was  planning  to  play  the  role  of 
Santa  Claus  myself,  but  you  deserve  to  have  the 
billet.  You  are  the  real  thing,  and,  besides,  I  am  really 
too  rheumatic  to  slide  down  a  chimney.  Can  you 
two  men  keep  a  secret?  Of  course  you  can.  I'll  tell 
you  right  now,  but  you  must  not  pipe  a  word  between 
decks  until  I  pass  you  the  word." 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


Jim  Cooney's  eyes  bulged  and  he  fidgeted  with 
excitement.  Sharing  secrets  with  the  admiral  was 
not  an  every-day  event.  Henry  Turnbull  took  it 
more  calmly.  They  crossed  their  hearts  and  hoped 
to  die,  whereupon  the  admiral  drew  them  into  a 
corner  of  the  shop  and  unfolded  the  conspiracy. 
Then  with  a  cordial  nod  of  farewell  he  trundled  into 
the  street  and  went  to  rejoin  his  stately  column  of 
Yankee  fighting  ships.  By  tacit  agreement  the  two 
sailor-men  drifted  into  a  tidy  pub  near  by  to  have 
just  one  and  discuss  the  sensational  episode. 

"I  get  my  rating  as  Santa  Glaus  and  it's  official, 
you  mean-tempered  little  squib ! "  ejaculated  Henry, 
and  his  demeanor  was  loftily  patronizing.  "All  the 
gobs  that  called  me  a  nuisance  ought  to  apologize, 
had  n't  they?" 

"You  will  get  none  from  me,  Bugs.  This  will  make 
you  a  bigger  nuisance  than  ever  —  all  swelled  up 
and  foolish  —  chatterin'  about  your  dear  old  pal, 
the  admiral." 

"Him  and  I  do  seem  sort  of  congenial,"  admitted 
Henry.    "Now  about  this  Christmas  party  of  his  — 
he  don't  want  us  to  spill  the  news  until  he  is  sure  he 
can  pull  it  off." 

"The  stunt  listens  all  right,"  replied  Cooney. 
"He  is  sure  a  good  old  scout.  Here's  to  him,  and  a 
bloody  fleet  action  before  we  fly  the  homeward- 
bound  pennant.  He'll  be  there." 

It  was  announced  from  the  admiral's  cabin,  two 
days  later,  that  the  war  orphans  of  Edinburgh  would 
be  invited  to  a  Christmas  dinner  and  entertainment 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON   9 

on  board  the  flagship.  It  was  suggested  that  the 
officers  and  men  might  be  glad  to  raise  a  fund  for 
expenses,  and  the  subscription  lists  were  open. 
Were  they  eager  and  willing?  It  was  a  happy  inspira 
tion.  Homesickness  was  banished.  They  crowded  to 
the  pay  office  and  fairly  flung  their  money  at  the 
yeomen  detailed  to  handle  the  fund.  The  other  ships 
of  the  division  heard  the  news  and  begged  that  they 
might  be  allowed  some  orphans  of  their  own.  It  was 
unfair  for  the  flagship  to  monopolize  the  fun.  The 
admiral  was  compelled  to  promise  them  each  a  con 
signment  of  kiddies  to  play  with. 

"You  have  undoubtedly  started  something,  sir," 
said  his  chief-of-staff  at  breakfast. 

"It  seems  to  have  scored  a  bull's-eye,"  was  the 
jocund  response.  "The  idea  occurred  to  me  when  I 
dined  in  the  Queen  Elizabeth  the  other  night.  Beatty 
said  that  his  battle-cruisers  were  planning  to  do 
something  of  the  sort  for  the  British  sailors'  orphans 
—  Jutland  accounted  for  a  lot  of  them  about  here  — 
and  I  persuaded  him  to  let  me  give  the  show." 

"And  you  concluded  to  capture  all  the  blessed 
orphans  you  could  lay  your  hands  on,  soldiers'  boys 
and  girls  as  well?" 

"Why  not?  It  is  a  privilege,  confound  it!  That's 
what  I  told  Beatty.  We  were  asking  a  favor  of  him. 
We  can  take  care  of  a  thousand  orphans,  and  if  more 
of  'em  come  they  won't  be  neglected.  I  can't  find 
enough  toys,  and  the  stuff  they  sell  for  candy  is  piti 
ful,  but  there  is  more  than  one  way  to  skin  a  cat. 
How  is  the  fund?  Still  rolling  up?" 


10  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Like  a  snowball,"  replied  the  chief -of -staff.  "This 
ship  will  do  better  than  four  thousand  dollars." 

"Splendid!  You  had  better  come  ashore  with  me 
this  morning.  I  shall  need  a  purchasing  agent." 

When  Christmas  morning  came,  there  was  gray 
sky  overhead  and  a  misty  drizzle  blew  from  the  North 
Sea,  but  the  boys  and  girls  of  Edinburgh  were  ac 
customed  to  damp  weather  and  the  noisy  battalions 
of  orphans  were  undismayed.  They  were  mustered 
at  the  landing-pier  by  chief  petty  officers,  who  almost 
lost  their  wits  before  the  last  boat  was  filled  and  the 
flotilla  moved  out  to  the  anchored  battleships.  The 
admiral  watched  his  guests  come  streaming  up  the 
gangway,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  blew  his 
nose  with  more  vehemence  than  seemed  necessary. 
His  emotions  were  profoundly  stirred.  He  was  vouch 
safed  an  intimate  glimpse  of  what  the  war  had  meant 
to  the  indomitable  people  of  the  British  Isles. 

These  children  of  Scottish  fathers  who  had  died 
by  sea  and  land  knew  what  it  was  to  feel  the  pinch 
of  frugal  rations  and  poor  clothing.  They  had  been 
cared  for  as  tenderly  and  generously  as  possible,  but, 
alas,  there  was  no  end  to  the  calls  for  aid  and  the 
food  supply  was  very  limited.  Neat  and  clean  and 
scrubbed  until  their  cheeks  shone  like  red  apples, 
they  swarmed  over  the  flagship  in  charge  of  their 
American  sailor  friends  who  tried  to  answer  a  dozen 
shrill  questions  at  once. 

Between  decks,  where  a  thousand  men  had  their 
living  quarters,  the  beams  and  stanchions  were  fes 
tooned  with  greenery  or  gay  with  bunting.  Even 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  11 

the  gleaming  breech-blocks  of  the  five-inch  rifles 
were  hung  with  wreaths  of  holly.  Most  entrancing 
of  all  was  a  huge  fireplace  built  of  red  brick,  or 
what  resembled  it,  and  a  chimney  which  rose  to 
the  deck  above  and  cleverly  fitted  into  a  ventilator. 
The  fireplace  was  flanked  by  Christmas  trees,  the 
branches  flecked  with  snow  and  sparkling  with  tiny 
colored  lights.  It  was  not  easy  to  realize  that  else 
where  in  this  grim,  gray  citadel  of  a  battleship  the 
engineers  and  stokers  watched  the  pressure  gauges, 
signal-men  stood  vigilant  for  the  word,  and  that  at 
two  hours'  steaming  notice  the  Grand  Fleet  was 
ready  to  move  at  full  speed  in  search  of  the 
enemy. 

Precisely  on  the  moment  a  bugle  sounded  the 
call  for  dinner  and  the  hundreds  of  lads  and  lassies 
were  convoyed  to  the  long  mess  tables  where  the 
bluejackets  served  as  waiters.  Now  it  must  be  re 
membered  that  these  urchins  had  not  seen  a  slice  of 
white  bread  in  years;  that  butter  was  almost  un 
known  to  them;  and  as  for  roast  turkey  and  cran 
berry  sauce,  and  peas,  and  mince  pie  and  ice  cream, 
the  feast  was  simply  incredible.  They  could  not  be 
lieve  their  eyes.  When  the  chaplain  said  grace,  they 
devoutly  bobbed  their  heads  and  the  clamor  was 
hushed.  Then  they  proceeded  to  show  the  wondering 
sailor-men  how  much  an  Edinburgh  orphan  could 
hold  without  bursting.  The  admiral  surveyed  one 
table  after  another  and  laughed  until  his  face  was 
redder  than  ever.  The  flagship  band  quite  played 
itself  out  of  breath,  and  between  bites  the  children 


12  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

shouted  the  chorus  of  "Pack  up  Your  Troubles  in 
Your  Old  Kit  Bag." 

Henry  Turnbull,  boatswain's  mate,  had  shep 
herded  his  squad  of  orphans  to  the  table  and  was 
now  engaged  in  trying  to  keep  pace  with  their  ap 
petites.  Near  by  was  that  nimble  petty  officer,  Jim 
Cooney,  who  balanced  a  laden  tray  like  a  juggler 
and  was  in  several  places  at  once.  Sad  it  is  to  re 
count,  but  there  was  discord  between  these  two 
shipmates  and  the  holiday  spirit  had  been  jarred 
by  angry  words.  The  innocent  cause  of  this  painful 
dissension  was  a  yellow-haired  tot  of  an  orphan 
lass  whose  years  were  seven  or  eight.  At  first  ac 
quaintance  Henry  Turnbull  had  noticed  her  as 
winsome  beyond  the  others,  and  the  admiration 
appeared  to  be  mutual,  for  she  had  slipped  her  hand 
in  his  big  paw  as  they  strolled  about  the  ship.  Re 
sponsive  to  his  sympathy,  she  told  him  about  the 
fayther  that  had  ganged  awa'  to  France  with  the 
Cameron  Highlanders  and  would  come  home  no 
more,  and  the  bonny,  bonny  mither  who  had  died 
because  her  heart  was  broken. 

"You  are  out  of  luck,  Mary  MacDonald,"  said 
Henry,  patting  her  soft  cheek.  "It  don't  seem  right 
for  you  to  be  turned  adrift  in  an  orphanage.  A  High 
land  rosebud  like  you  ought  to  grow  up  in  the  coun 
try,  on  a  farm  or  something." 

"It  was  a  wee  bit  farm  we  lived  on!"  cried  Mary, 
with  a  gush  of  happy  memory.  "I  minded  the  sheep, 
and  once  I  fell  in  the  burn  and  mither  put  me  to 
bed." 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  13 

"Mine  used  to  wallop  me  if  I  went  near  the  canal. 
That  was  in  Passaic,  New  Jersey,"  confided  Henry. 
"I  was  a  regular  young  wharf  rat." 

They  had  been  getting  on  famously  when  Jim 
Cooney  joined  the  party,  and  he,  too,  fell  a  victim 
to  the  fascinations  of  small  Mary  MacDonald. 
Impartially  she  smiled  on  him  and  giggled  at  his 
jests,  for  he  far  outshone  poor  Henry  as  a  comedian. 
He  could  imitate  a  slide  trombone  and  walk  on  his 
hands  and  wiggle  his  ears,  which  achievements  so 
enraptured  the  fair  but  fickle  Mary  that  she  shifted 
her  attention,  and  Henry  felt  the  twinges  of  jealousy. 
While  they  were  assembling  the  guests  at  dinner, 
he  found  occasion  to  say : 

"That's  my  orphan,  Jim.  Get  me?  I  saw  her  first. 
You  go  get  you  another  one.  With  five  hundred  to 
pick  from,  what  do  you  mean  by  butting  in  on  me?" 

"She  got  tired  of  your  ugly  face,  Bugs,"  snapped 
the  cruel  gunner's  mate.  "These  unfortunate  young 
sters  need  something  merry  and  bright  to  look  at. 
Is  it  fair  to  add  to  their  afflictions?" 

"I  took  a  mighty  strong  fancy  to  this  beautiful 
little  Mary  MacDonald,"  was  Henry's  dogged  reply. 
"She  reminds  me  of  a  girl  I  knew  one  time  —  a  girl 
that  threw  me  down.  If  we  had  got  married  and  had  a 
little  girl  she  would  ha'  looked  just  like  this  Mary." 

"Not  if  she  took  after  her  dad,  she  wouldn't," 
was  Cooney's  coarse  rejoinder.  "Don't  be  foolish, 
Henry,  and  put  a  crimp  in  this  Christmas  celebration. 
My  wife  has  been  dyin'  to  adopt  a  little  girl.  Our 
kids  are  both  boys.  I've  been  hunting  all  over  every- 


14  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

wheres,  and  Mary  is  the  first  one  I've  glimmed  that 
fits  the  specifications  to  a  dot." 

"But  I  have  an  idea  of  actin'  as  a  sort  of  guardeen 
to  her,  Jim,  and  finding  a  good  woman  to  bring  her 
up  all  ship-shape.  You  see,  if  that  girl  in  Passaic 
had  n't  given  me  the  hook  — " 

"And  if  you  had  any  brains  you  might  be  an  ad 
miral,"  scoffed  Cooney. 

"You  leave  my  orphan  be  or  there'll  be  real 
trouble  between  us,"  was  the  angry  ultimatum  of 
Henry. 

This  may  explain  why  at  dinner  wee  Miss  Mary 
MacDonald  received  the  flattering  attentions  of 
two  petty  officers  who  hastened  to  anticipate  her 
smallest  desire.  She  thanked  them  both  with  the 
courtesy  of  a  princess,  but  it  was  obvious  that  her 
favor  inclined  toward  the  sprightly  Cooney  of  the 
droll  yarns  and  the  dancing  eye  and  the  sly  imita 
tions  of  the  admiral's  deep  and  awful  voice.  Henry 
Turnbull  appeared  disconsolate,  but  he  brightened 
toward  the  end  of  the  dinner,  for  the  climax  of  the 
festivities  was  at  hand  and  he  would  be  the  star 
performer  as  Santa  Claus. 

Reluctantly  the  orphans  wriggled  from  off  the 
benches,  the  buttons  almost  popping  from  their 
clothes  while  they  languishingly  eyed  the  ice  cream 
saucers  and  wondered  if  they  could  not  have  man 
aged  to  stow  a  few  more  spoonfuls  beneath  their 
little  jackets.  Squads  of  sailors  had  been  swiftly 
piling  packages  near  the  Christmas  trees,  mountains 
of  them,  enough  to  make  a  cargo  for  a  coasting 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  15 

smack.  The  men  were  tottering  in  under  the  burden 
of  more  bundles  while  the  glee  club  of  the  flagship 
sang  some  old  songs  that  everybody  knew,  and  then 
it  was  rumored  that  Saint  Nicholas  himself  was 
about  to  appear. 

There  were  squeals  of  excitement  and  all  eyes 
became  focused  upon  the  fireplace.  Henry  Turnbull 
had  rehearsed  his  part,  but  not  in  costume,  which 
made  him  bulkier,  and  three  helpings  of  turkey  may 
have  expanded  him  a  bit.  At  any  rate,  he  found  it 
difficult  to  insert  himself  into  the  ventilator  and  the 
eager  orphans  heard  his  muffled  grunts  as  he  squirmed 
and  twisted.  The  chimney  was  even  a  tighter  fit, 
to  judge  by  the  sounds  which  conveyed  extreme 
annoyance  and  shortness  of  breath.  The  admiral 
appeared  anxious  and  moved  nearer  the  fireplace. 
The  language  of  Santa  Glaus  had  become  so  em 
phatic  that  the  admiral  sent  word  to  the  glee  club 
to  strike  up  something  and  smother  the  confounded 
racket  in  the  chimney. 

With  presence  of  mind  a  brawny  quartermaster 
crawled  into  the  fireplace  and  peered  up  the  chimney. 
One  of  Henry's  boots  dangled  within  his  reach  and 
he  clutched  it  with  a  stentorian  shout  of: 

"Heave  and  haul  away,  my  hearties!  We  can 
always  pull  ourselves  out  of  a  hole  in  this  man's 
navy." 

Santa  Glaus  let  go  all  standing,  as  the  saying  is, 
and  came  down  upon  the  quartermaster's  head  like 
a  pile-driver.  It  was  a  novel  entrance  and  aroused 
the  orphans  to  wild  applause.  When  the  jolly  old 


16  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

saint  had  disentangled  himself,  however,  and  was 
right  side  up,  it  was  discovered  that  he  had  suffered 
damage.  His  white  whiskers  were  tucked  under  one 
ear,  a  scratch  ran  the  length  of  his  nose,  the  crimson 
doublet  was  split  up  the  back,  and  his  countenance 
was  not  radiating  the  good-humor  expected  of  it. 
The  orphans  loved  him  no  less.  In  fact,  they  had  a 
taste  for  comedy,  and  this  was  like  a  Charlie  Chaplin 
movie. 

Henry  Turnbull  failed  to  share  their  merriment. 
He  was  filled  with  anger  and  chagrin  because  he  had 
made  a  lamentable  mess  of  it  in  the  presence  of  the 
admiral,  who  had  officially  appointed  him  to  the 
billet.  Pulling  his  whiskers  straight,  he  shouted  a 
greeting  to  his  little  friends  and  began  to  reel  off  the 
jests  which  he  had  so  painstakingly  learned  by  heart. 
His  task  was  to  act  as  master  of  ceremonies  while  the 
sailors  distributed  the  parcels,  but  his  mind  wandered, 
and  he  kept  one  eye  on  a  wicked  gunner's  mate, 
Jim  Cooney,  who  sat  with  pretty  Mary  MacDonald 
perched  upon  his  knee. 

It  was  the  faithless  Cooney  who  had  most  loudly 
guyed  the  unlucky  Santa  Claus  when  he  tumbled 
down  the  chimney.  Henry  knew  that  voice  and  the 
strident  "haw-haw"  of  a  laugh  that  sounded  like 
the  bray  of  a  jackass.  Worse  than  this,  Cooney  was 
inciting  wee  Mary  to  merriment,  trying  to  make 
Henry  ridiculous  in  the  sight  of  his  own  orphan. 
It  was  raw,  bitterly  reflected  Henry,  and  not  even  the 
benevolent  soul  of  a  Santa  Claus  could  be  expected 
to  stand  for  it.  Unless  Jim  Cooney  squared  himself, 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  17 

he  was  liable  to  have  the  Christmas  spirit  punched 
clean  out  of  him. 

The  sagacious  admiral  knew  what  sort  of  gifts 
would  do  the  most  good,  and  with  several  thousand 
dollars  at  his  disposal  he  had  bought  for  every  orphan 
a  sweater  and  a  pair  of  shoes.  Moreover,  when  this 
glorious  afternoon  was  waning  and  they  marched  on 
deck  to  fill  the  waiting  boats,  a  long  line  of  smiling 
sailors  stood  ready  with  more  neat  packages.  And 
every  one  of  them  contained  a  loaf  of  white  bread 
and  some  slices  of  turkey  and  an  apple  tart  and  two 
oranges  and  six  priceless  lumps  of  sugar,  and  a 
picture  card  of  the  flagship  with  the  admiral's  auto 
graph.  He  had  sat  up  half  the  night  to  write  his 
name  on  them.  His  departing  guests  piped  up  "Auld 
Lang  Syne"  and  the  band  played  them  over  the 
side.  There  was  no  doubt  that  the  American  Navy 
had  distinguished  itself. 

The  very  last  of  the  orphans  to  quit  the  ship  was 
little  Mary  MacDonald,  escorted  into  the  boat  by 
her  two  courtiers  who  exhorted  the  coxswain  to 
look  after  her  with  the  most  particular  care.  Santa 
Claus  was  again  in  uniform,  but  he  had  not  laid 
his  grudge  aside  with  his  false  whiskers  and  he  eyed 
Jim  Cooney  with  smouldering  hostility.  The  swab 
of  a  gunner's  mate  had  double-crossed  him  by  trying 
to  steal  the  affections  of  an  innocent  child.  And  there 
were  droves  and  slathers  of  orphans  to  pick  from  — 
here  was  the  just  grievance.  Nor  was  it  soothing  to 
behold  the  adorable  Mary  snuggling  closer  to  Cooney 
when  he  kissed  her  good-bye  and  to  hear  her  say: 


18  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Dinna  forget  to  write  me  the  letter,  Uncle  Jim, 
and  I'll  wear  the  bonny  cap-ribbon  for  aye." 

Toward  Henry  she  displayed  sweet,  sincere  grati 
tude,  but  he  failed  to  be  rated  as  an  adopted  uncle, 
and  she  giggled  whenever  she  looked  at  the  scratch 
on  his  nose.  He  was  a  dour  mon,  she  may  have  said 
to  herself.  His  harsh  face  softened  wonderfully  as  he 
told  her: 

"I  hope  you  won't  forget  me,  Mary  child,  and 
maybe  we  can  go  out  for  a  walk  together  when  I  get 
ashore  again.  I'm  not  a  village  cut-up  like  some  of 
these  smart  guys,  but  you  can  just  bet  I'll  stand  by." 

It  was  observed  on  board  that  the  two  petty 
officers  who  had  been  mateys  for  ever  so  long  were 
keeping  away  from  each  other.  This  indicated  a 
serious  feud.  Their  watch  divisions  had  become 
accustomed  to  quarrels  between  them  and  had 
listened  with  amused  indifference  to  the  waspish 
taunts  of  Cooney  and  the  clumsy  retorts  of  the 
slow-witted  Henry,  to  the  threats  of  violence  which 
ended  in  reconciliation.  In  this  instance,  however, 
all  attempts  at  arbitration  were  futile.  Henry  sulkily 
refused  to  discuss  the  issue,  and  Jim  Cooney  informed 
'their  mutual  friends: 

"The  big  stiff  is  too  dumb  to  listen  to  reason.  I 
tried  it  on  him.  You  heard  him  tell  us  all  how  we 
must  be  happy  and  kind.  He  sets  a  lovely  example! 
I  suppose  it's  my  fault  that  he  got  jammed  in  the 
fake  chimney.  You'd  think  so,  to  listen  to  him 
grouch.  I'm  done,  boys.  I've  played  the  limit  on 
that  damned  old  bonehead," 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  19 

There  was  no  more  shore  liberty  at  Edinburgh, 
no  opportunity  to  visit  the  war  orphanage  in  which 
wee  Mary  MacDonald  had  found  shelter.  A  signal 
was  sent  from  the  hoary  Admiralty  building  in 
London,  and  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  Grand 
Fleet  relayed  it  to  the  battleship  divisions,  British 
and  American,  that  rode  in  the  Firth  of  Forth.  Some 
hint  or  warning  had  come  from  the  other  side  of  the 
North  Sea  where  the  German  ships  were  mobilized. 
The  naval  intelligence  functioned  with  inscrutable  ac 
curacy  and  its  tidings  were  swiftly  transmitted. 

Quietly,  without  delay,  the  American  battleships 
stole  out  to  sea  and  vanished  like  somber  shadows. 
Ahead  of  them  a  squadron  of  battle-cruisers,  flying 
the  White  Ensign,  drove  at  twenty-five  knots,  steer 
ing  straight  for  the  enemy's  coast.  There  was  a 
change  of  plan,  however,  or  the  valorous  ambition 
of  the  German  command  had  cooled,  and  after 
several  hours'  steaming  the  American  ships  swung 
on  a  new  course  and  moved  northward  at  a  more 
leisurely  gait.  They  passed  the  uttermost  headlands 
of  Scotland  and  cautiously  sought  the  narrow  fair 
ways  where  the  black  tide  boiled  between  islands 
barren  and  desolate.  Then  the  wide  harbor  of  Scapa 
Flow  opened  to  view  and  the  active  base  of  the 
Grand  Fleet. 

The  ships  were  to  be  counted  by  hundreds,  and 
there  was  an  incessant,  complex  activity  —  columns 
of  lean  destroyers  bound  in  from  patrol  duty,  their 
funnels  white  with  the  salt  spray;  dingy  trawlers 
trailing  their  nets  for  bigger,  uglier  fish  than  they 


20  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

used  to  catch  on  the  Dogger  Bank;  little  drifters 
that  plied  among  the  fighting  ships  on  a  myriad 
errands;  submarines  running  awash  as  they  surged 
outbound  to  stalk  the  lurking  U-boats;  dainty  light 
cruisers  which  could  fight  as  well  as  run;  seaplanes 
whirring  overhead  and  the  kite  balloons  gleaming 
against  the  sky  like  so  many  silvered  sausages.  Dom 
inating  the  picture,  compelling  the  attention,  were 
the  superdreadnoughts,  the  bulwark  of  England  and 
of  all  civilization,  column  after  column  of  them. 
The  American  sailors  had  not  seen  all  of  the  British 
Navy  in  the  Firth  of  Forth. 

There  was  much  work  to  be  done  among  the  ships 
that  flew  the  Stars  and  Stripes  —  repairs  to  finish, 
a  new  routine  to  be  learned  in  order  that  they  might 
fit  into  the  mighty  organization,  and  the  many  final 
touches  which  should  whet  them  to  the  keenest 
possible  edge  for  battle.  It  was  the  hope  and  prayer 
of  every  officer  and  enlisted  man  that  the  fourteen- 
inch  guns  might  be  trained  on  something  better  than 
a  canvas  target.  These  were  weary  crews  at  the  end 
of  a  watch  and  they  were  glad  to  crawl  into  their 
hammocks  with  little  grumbling  about  the  lack 
of  recreation  in  these  wind-swept  Orkney  Islands. 
After  all,  the  British  sailors  had  endured  it  for  three 
years  and  a  "Yank"  could  stand  the  gaff  with  any 
"Limie"  that  ever  trod  a  deck. 

Henry  Turnbull  was  a  conscientious  boatswain's 
mate  and  no  fault  could  be  found  with  his  dogged 
industry  and  fidelity  to  duty.  He  was  patient  with 
the  flighty  lads  from  the  training  stations  who 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  21 

fancied  themselves  sailors  and  imitated  the  vices 
rather  than  the  virtues  of  "real  gobs."  They  grew 
fond  of  him,  in  a  way,  but  he  could  make  no  friends 
among  them  without  impairing  his  authority,  and, 
besides,  they  were  mere  infants.  He  had  never  been 
a  genial  member  of  a  petty  officers'  mess,  and  his 
habit  of  reading  books  in  a  blundering,  random 
fashion  had  served  to  detach  him  from  the  social 
life  that  seethed  between  the  crowded  decks  of  a 
battleship.  Now  he  felt  lost  and  forlorn  without  the 
daily  intimacy  of  Jim  Cooney  who  had  bullied  and 
cursed  him  good-naturedly  through  one  cruise  after 
another. 

Henry  was  in  a  mood  to  compromise  the  problem 
of  the  orphan  who  had  come  between  them.  When 
the  men  assembled  after  supper  for  the  motion 
pictures,  he  sought  a  seat  upon  the  same  bench  with 
Cooney  and  studied  him  from  the  tail  of  his  eye  for 
some  indication  of  friendliness.  The  gunner's  mate 
gave  him  no  more  than  a  cool  nod,  however,  and  pre 
ferred  to  talk  with  the  others  around  him.  Henry 
glowered  at  the  screen  and  could  find  nothing  to  say. 
Soon  he  became  absorbed  in  the  scenes  of  a  five- 
reel  drama  portrayed  with  such  unusual  artistry 
that  his  simple  heart  was  stirred  by  longings  vague 
and  wistful. 

It  was,  in  part,  a  rural  idyll  —  a  New  England 
landscape  in  the  spring  of  the  year  when  the  apple 
trees  are  white  with  bloom  and  the  purple  lilacs 
burgeon  in  the  dooryards.  At  the  end  of  a  lane  which 
rambled  between  ancient  stone  walls  stood  a  small 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


farmhouse  beneath  its  guardian  elms.  Expectantly 
a  little  girl  —  her  years  might  have  been  seven  or 
eight  —  ran  out  to  the  gate  and  a  foolish  puppy 
scampered  at  her  heels.  Presently  a  man  turned  into 
the  lane  and  she  flew  like  a  bird  straight  into  his 
arms  and  he  hoisted  her  upon  his  stalwart  shoulder. 
He  wore  a  Navy  uniform,  which  impressed  Henry 
Turnbull  as  a  most  extraordinary  coincidence,  and 
he  said  to  himself,  with  pensive  amazement: 

"Just  the  way  I  dreamed  it!  That's  me,  as  big  as 
life,  or  I  know  blamed  well  it  ought  to  be  —  home 
from  a  cruise  and  Mary  MacDonald  hoistin'  wel 
come  signals.  What's  the  sense  of  leavin'  her  in 
Scotland?  She  belongs  right  in  a  picture  like  that, 
back  home  in  God's  country.  I'll  bet  I  could  find 
the  right  folks  to  look  after  her.  And  when  she  got 
used  to  me,  it  'ud  be  the  same  as  if  we  belonged  to 
each  other." 

Such  were  the  sentimental  fancies  of  this  hard- 
featured  bluejacket  of  the  Regular  Navy,  who  had 
battered  about  since  boyhood,  whose  early  memories 
were  of  mean  streets  and  sordid  tenements.  Im 
pulsively  he  turned  to  say  to  Jim  Cooney  who  sat 
silent  at  his  elbow: 

"Do  you  get  that?  The  big  idea  —  right  before 
your  eyes!  I've  saved  my  pay  and  I  can  put  it 
across." 

"Hadn't  you  better  consult  the  little  lady?" 
curtly  answered  the  gunner's  mate.  "You  may  be  all 
wrong.  She  wrote  me  a  letter  —  I  got  it  to-day  —  in 
her  own  fist,  and  the  spelling  is  a  riot.  And  I'm 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  23 

sending  my  old  woman  word  that  I've  found  the 
kid  she  was  looking  for." 

"But  I  saw  her  first,"  anxiously  reiterated  Henry. 

"There  you  go  again,"  Jim  peevishly  exclaimed. 
"Absolutely  nothing  doing.  You're  a  rotten  poor 
loser." 

Henry  sighed  and  stared  at  the  picture,  fearful  of 
missing  another  glimpse  of  the  farmhouse  and  the 
child  who  so  poignantly  reminded  him  of  Mary 
MacDonald.  He  relinquished  the  hope  of  mending 
matters  with  Cooney.  It  was  all  off  between  them, 
he  sadly  concluded.  In  his  simple  code  of  ethics  there 
was  no  sin  so  unpardonable  as  a  dirty  deal,  and  this 
was  what  had  been  handed  him,  as  he  mulled  it 
over  in  his  mind.  After  this  he  ignored  Cooney, 
who  went  his  own  way  with  a  demeanor  of  cheerful 
indifference. 

The  admiral  sat  in  his  cabin,  his  heels  cocked  up 
on  the  desk,  spectacles  on  his  nose,  while  he  diverted 
himself  with  a  frivolous  novel.  Glancing  at  the  clock, 
he  yawned,  and  was  about  to  go  to  bed  when  the 
marine  orderly  entered  and  gave  him  a  slip  of  paper 
from  the  radio-room. 

"For  you,  sir,  personal  and  immediate.  The  ex 
ecutive  says  he  will  report  to  you  in  a  minute  or  two, 


sir." 


The  admiral  gazed  at  the  first  word  and  then  at 
the  numerals  which  stood  for  a  signature.  He  did  not 
wait  for  the  rest  of  it  to  be  decoded.  Unruffled,  with 
a  manner  almost  leisurely,  he  swung  around  in  his 
chair  and  pressed  a  button,  then  another.  The  youth- 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


ful  executive  entered  in  haste,  the  rain  dripping  from 
his  rubber  coat. 

"Signal  from  the  C.-in-C.  to  proceed  without  de 
lay.  Information  positive,"  said  the  admiral. 

"That  means  the  German  fleet  is  out,  sir,"  replied 
the  other,  and  his  eyes  were  bright. 

"So  I  infer.  We  have  been  under  two  hours'  steam 
ing  notice  since  noon.  All  right,  are  you?" 

"Right  as  can  be,  sir.  This  ship  can  move  on  the 
minute." 

The  chief  -of  -staff  came  into  the  cabin,  followed  by 
the  captain  of  the  flagship.  The  conference  was  quiet 
and  very  brief.  In  the  stormy  darkness  outside, 
lights  were  winking  from  one  American  battleship 
to  another  while  the  tiny  sparks  flashed  red  or  white 
among  the  superdreadnoughts  of  England.  Alone 
in  his  cabin  once  more,  the  admiral  laboriously  en 
cased  himself  in  sweater,  boots,  and  leather  jacket 
and  knitted  helmet.  Then  he  cocked  his  heels  upon 
the  desk  and  finished  a  chapter  of  the  novel.  He  was 
seldom  guilty  of  waste  motion.  His  ships  were  pre 
sumed  to  be  prepared  for  action.  Therefore  they 
were.  Such  is  the  law  of  the  Navy. 

With  no  more  flurry  than  this,  thousands  of  men 
between  decks  in  these  huge,  darkened  ships  were 
stowing  hammocks  and  moving  to  their  stations. 
There  was  no  shouting  of  orders  or  running  to  and 
fro.  The  admiral  climbed  to  his  bridge  and  peered 
into  the  gloom  a  few  minutes  before  the  cables  clanked 
in  the  hawse-holes  and  the  flagship  forged  slowly 
ahead.  Elsewhere  in  this  populous  harbor  of  Scapa 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  25 

Flow  the  divisions  of  big  ships,  of  destroyers,  of 
cruisers,  were  taking  position  or  moving  seaward,  at 
exact  intervals,  in  a  night  so  black  that  confusion 
seemed  inevitable.  It  was  a  game  they  had  played 
many  times,  in  all  weathers,  whenever  there  was  the 
slightest  chance  of  finding  the  enemy. 

When  daylight  broke,  the  gale  that  lashed  the 
North  Sea  was  tempestuous.  The  destroyers  were 
buried  to  their  funnels  and  seemed  to  come  up  for 
breath  now  and  then.  The  battleships,  titanic  and 
stable  as  they  had  appeared  in  smoother  water, 
now  wallowed  and  plunged  amid  cataracts  of  foam, 
crashing  dead  into  the  seas  that  roared  across  their 
decks.  It  seemed  impossible  to  fight  their  guns 
amid  such  commotion  as  this,  but  they  held  to  the 
course  and  stubbornly  endured  their  punishment. 

The  crew  of  the  flagship  shivered  in  the  flooded 
living  quarters,  and  were  of  the  opinion  that  the 
next  war  ought  to  be  shifted  to  a  better  climate. 
They  were  not  enthusiastic  over  the  North  Sea  in 
winter.  Henry  Turnbull  was  glad  when  the  watches 
were  shifted  and  it  came  his  turn  of  duty  on  deck. 
There  was  fresh  air,  at  least,  and  something  to  look 
at.  He  clung  to  a  stanchion  in  the  lee  of  a  weather- 
screen  forward  and  saw  the  misty  shapes  of  other 
battleships  to  left  and  right,  while  in  procession 
astern  the  American  division  maintained  a  flawless 
formation. 

A  lieutenant  bawled  a  command  and  Henry 
summoned  his  men.  They  crept  out  past  the  turrets, 
toward  the  bow,  one  or  two  hesitating  as  they  beheld 


26  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  deck  submerge  and  then  lift  heavily  with  the 
water  racing  across  it  in  shouting  torrents.  The 
lieutenant  led  the  way,  and  they  clawed  from  one 
life-line  to  another,  swept  from  their  feet,  hanging 
on  like  grim  death.  A  second  squad,  in  charge  of  Jim 
Cooney,  followed  to  help  them.  The  fastenings  of  a 
hatch  cover  had  been  wrenched  off  and  it  was  in 
danger  of  going  adrift.  The  bluejackets  toiled  tena 
ciously,  half -strangled,  one  eye  on  the  towering  seas. 

Nobody  knew  how  it  happened,  but  there  was  a 
yell  of  alarm  and  the  officers  gazing  down  from  the 
bridge  saw  two  men  slide  headlong  across  the  deck 
and  strive  to  regain  a  foothold  as  the  water  propelled 
them  in  its  rushing  onset.  One  of  the  twain  was 
Cooney,  the  gunner's  mate,  who  managed  to  grasp 
the  other  derelict  by  the  leg  as  though  endeavoring 
to  pull  him  back.  Then  they  were  dashed  against  the 
low  wire  railing  and  the  ship  rolled  far  down.  When 
she  lifted  again,  Cooney  lay  doubled  against  a  wire, 
but  the  other  man  had  been  carried  away  on  the 
back  of  a  breaking  wave.  The  North  Sea  had  swept 
him  from  the  ship  to  blot  him  out  in  a  twinkling. 
Even  more  tragic  it  was  to  perceive  that  no  help 
could  be  offered  him.  Because  of  the  menace  of 
submarine  attack  the  ships  of  the  Grand  Fleet  were 
forbidden  to  stop  or  even  slacken  speed  to  save  a 
drowning  sailor. 

The  cry  of  "man  overboard"  was  futile,  a  pitiful 
mockery.  Life  preservers  were  flung  from  deck  and 
bridge,  and  the  signal  passed  to  the  battleships  in 
column  astern,  but  in  these  wildly  disordered  seas 


WHEN  DAYLIGHT  BROKE,  THE  GALE  THAT  LASHED  THE  NORTH  SEA 
WAS  TEMPESTUOUS 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  27 

not  a  glimpse  was  descried  of  the  bluejacket  who  had 
risked  and  lost  his  life  in  the  line  of  duty.  He  had 
ceased  to  exist  even  before  his  comrades  were  aware 
that  he  was  gone.  The  cruel  sea  had  stamped  him 
under.  Watching  the  opportunity  they  hauled  Jim 
Cooney  clear  and  carried  him  below.  His  left  arm 
was  broken  and  the  shock  had  dazed  him,  but  he 
seemed  to  forget  the  pain  as  he  exclaimed: 

"I  tried  to  make  fast  to  him  —  as  soon  as  I  saw 
him  start  to  go.  Honest  I  did,  boys.  The  poor  old 
guy,  he  never  stopped  —  just  floated  away  like  a 
chip.  He  was  my  matey,  Bugs  Turnbull  was,  and 
white  clean  through." 

"A  good  gob  —  Henry  was  all  o'  that,"  solemnly 
agreed  one  of  the  infants  in  blue.  "He  was  bumped 
off  easy,  though  —  never  knew  what  happened  to 
him." 

"He  was  sore  on  me,  and  I  certainly  was  rough 
to  him,"  mourned  Cooney,  while  a  surgeon  examined 
his  arm.  "Ouch!  Twist  it  off,  why  don't  you,  Doc, 
but  I  guess  it  serves  me  right.  Why  did  n't  I  let 
Henry  have  his  orphan?  That  was  him  all  over  — 
heart  as  big  as  a  cork  fender,  but  as  stubborn  as 
a  mule,  and  he  chewed  on  one  idea  at  a  time  and 
there  was  nothing  else  to  it." 

"But  you  always  cussed  him  free  and  hearty  and 
he  seemed  to  like  it,"  consoled  a  chief  petty  officer. 

"This  was  different.  He  fell  for  this  orphan  stuff 
awful  strong.  And  there  had  n't  been  many  bright 
spots  in  his  young  life,  you  can  take  it  from  me. 
Why,  we  were  workin'  alongside  each  other  only  a 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


few  minutes  ago  and  now  he's  gone  skyhootin'  off 
to  Davy  Jones.  On  the  level,  it  seems  about  as  real 
to  me  as  a  moving  picture." 

Cooney,  still  berating  himself  and  lamenting  his 
lost  matey,  was  tucked  in  bed  in  the  sick-bay  while 
the  battleship  waged  her  inflexible  combat  with 
wind  and  sea.  Scattered  over  the  face  of  the  waters 
for  hundreds  of  square  miles,  the  mighty  armada 
moved  in  search  of  its  furtive  quarry  until  the  few 
hours  of  daylight  were  gone.  It  was  hopeless  to  press 
on  when  the  impenetrable  curtain  of  night  closed 
down.  Ship  after  ship  obeyed  the  signal  to  return  to 
port.  This  ended  another  episode  of  the  day's  work, 
of  the  secret  and  untiring  vigilance  of  the  Grand 
Fleet. 

The  American  admiral  clambered  stiffly  down  from 
the  bridge  to  thaw  his  bulky  frame  and  rest  his 
legs  after  twelve  hours  of  exposure.  To  the  marine 
orderly  who  helped  him  out  of  his  storm  clothes  he 
said: 

"Who  was  the  petty  officer  we  lost  overboard? 
A  boatswain's  mate  —  but  I  did  n't  catch  the 


name." 


"Bugs  —  excuse  me,  sir  —  Henry  Turnbull.  The 
men  feel  gloomy  about  it.  He  had  a  clean  record,  they 
tell  me." 

"Turnbull?  Why,  he  was  my  Santa  Claus!"  cried 
the  admiral.  "Was  he  married,  did  you  happen  to 
hear?  Did  he  leave  any  children?" 

"No,  sir.  There's  a  yarn  about  an  orphan  he 
thought  a  lot  of  —  one  of  those  kids  from  Edin- 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  29 

burgh  that  came  aboard.  His  chum,  Gunner's  Mate 
Cooney,  could  tell  you  all  about  it,  but  he  is  out  of 
commission  with  a  busted  arm." 

"Um-m,  thank  you.  I  will  see  Cooney  when  he 
feels  like  talking.  Too  bad!  A  good  man  snuffed  out 
like  a  candle,  but  it's  the  way  of  the  Service." 

"Yes,  sir.  We're  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow." 

Several  days  later  the  men  of  Henry  Turnbull's 
division  assembled  on  the  upper  deck.  It  was  in 
formal,  without  orders.  They  met  in  accordance  with 
an  ancient  custom  of  seafarers,  to  hold  an  auction 
sale  of  the  personal  belongings  of  a  drowned  shipmate 
for  the  benefit  of  such  kinsfolk  as  he  had  left  behind. 
For  the  moment  the  faces  of  these  boyish  sailors 
were  serious  and  they  talked  in  quieter  tones  than 
usual.  This  was  the  last  rite,  the  only  ceremony  which 
they  could  offer  the  memory  of  the  boatswain's  mate. 
The  crowd  increased  as  men  from  other  divisions 
joined  them. 

Jim  Cooney  stood  among  them,  his  bandaged  arm 
in  a  sling,  refusing  to  listen  to  the  suggestion  that 
he  act  as  auctioneer.  He  was  still  weak,  and  the  task 
seemed  too  intimate  a  thing  for  him  to  undertake. 
A  youthful  quartermaster  consented  to  serve,  and 
they  fetched  and  opened  the  canvas  bag  which  con 
tained  the  worldly  possessions  of  Henry  Turnbull. 
Two  or  three  whispered  to  Cooney  and  he  stepped 
forward,  baring  his  head  as  he  began  to  speak: 

"I  knew  this  lad  better  than  most  of  you.  The 
next  of  kin  that  he  set  down  on  his  enlistment  pa 
pers  was  an  old  crab  of  an  uncle  that  would  n't 


30  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

give  him  a  penny  to  save  him  from  starving.  But 
Henry  did  leave  somebody  for  us  to  take  care  of  and 
to  remember  him  by  —  a  little  girl  named  Mary 
MacDonald  that  came  to  our  Christmas  party. 
I  'm  ashamed  to  stand  here  and  own  up  to  it,  but  I 
tried  to  get  Henry's  goat  and  I  guess  I  succeeded.  I 
told  him  I  aimed  to  adopt  this  orphan  of  his,  and 
it  was  more  or  less  of  a  josh  at  the  start,  but  it  goes, 
and  I'll  stand  back  of  my  word.  We  don't  want 
to  send  her  across  until  after  the  war,  for  it  would  n't 
be  fair  to  Henry  to  have  the  blessed  kid  torpedoed, 
but  we  can  see  that  she  gets  out  in  the  country  to 
live  in  the  meantime.  I'll  go  as  far  as  I  can,  as  my 
duty  to  a  dead  shipmate,  and  you  men  can  do  what 
you  like.  The  little  girl  ought  to  have  a  few  dollars 
as  an  anchor  to  wind'ard,  and  she  deserves  a  first- 
class  education  —  so  it's  my  idea  that  whatever 
you  chip  in  at  his  auction  should  be  salted  away  as 
the  'Henry  Turnbull  Fund.'  The  admiral  sent  for 
me  yesterday,  and  I  put  it  up  to  him,  and  he  says 
he'll  be  glad  to  show  us  how  to  fix  it  all  safe  and 
legal." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  approval  as  Cooney 
stepped  aside  and  several  men  shook  his  hand  or 
slapped  him  on  the  back.  The  spirit  of  the  assem 
blage  displayed  itself  as  soon  as  the  quartermaster 
held  up  a  blue  jumper,  neatly  rolled  and  tied,  and 
asked  for  bids. 

"Five  dollars!"  shouted  a  boy  in  his  teens. 

"Ten  bucks,  you  little  piker!"  came  from  the 
edge  of  the  crowd. 


THE  ORPHAN  AND  THE  BATTLE-WAGON  31 

"Make  it  twenty!"  declaimed  a  dapper  yeoman. 
"What's  money  good  for  if  there's  no  place  to  blow 
it?" 

"Twenty -five,  and  keep  her  rolling!"  roared  a 
stoker  with  shadows  of  grime  beneath  his  eyes. 

The  quartermaster  grinned.  His  job  was  a  sine 
cure.  Jim  Cooney  wiped  his  eyes  and  edged  farther 
back.  It  would  never  do  to  be  caught  playing  the 
baby,  but  this  tribute,  so  generous  and  responsive, 
appealed  to  him  as  inspired  by  respect  for  Henry. 
One  by  one  the  articles  of  clothing  were  offered  to 
these  eager  bidders,  who  bought  them  for  amounts 
fairly  fabulous  when  compared  with  their  real  value. 
Then  came  the  contents  of  Henry's  ditty-box  — 
the  trinkets,  the  little  odds  and  ends  which  he  had 
collected  and  treasured  for  one  reason  or  another, 
and  his  few  books  picked  up  at  second-hand  shops, 
including  that  marvelous  treatise  which  proved  that 
the  earth  was  flat,  and  the  shabby  volume  of  poems 
that  had  filled  him  with  the  desire  to  be  happy  and 
kind  at  Christmas-time.  When  these  two  books  were 
held  to  view,  Cooney  spoke  up: 

"I'll  consider  it  a  favor,  boys,  if  you  will  side 
step  those  and  let  'em  come  to  me  for  forty  dollars." 

"W7e  will  not,  but  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  'em 
if  my  bid  of  fifty  dollars  is  any  good,"  exclaimed  a 
master-at-arms. 

"You'll  have  to  come  through  with  sixty  iron 
men,  Johnny  Legs,"  was  the  retort  of  a  grizzled  old 
barnacle  of  a  carpenter's  mate. 

This  rivalry   subsiding,   Cooney  fumbled  in  his 


32  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

pocket  and  withdrew  a  small  envelope.  It  contained 
a  sheet  of  paper,  rather  smudged  and  rumpled,  upon 
which  a  childish  hand  had  written  in  pencil. 

"Here's  a  letter  for  Henry  from  his  orphan," 
said  Cooney.  "It  came  aboard  in  yesterday's  mail 
and  I  took  the  liberty  of  reading  it.  Mary  MacDonald 
had  n't  forgotten  him.  '  My  dear  Christmas  friend ' 
she  calls  him,  and  thanks  him  like  a  little  lady  for 
being  good  to  her.  I  showed  the  letter  to  the  ad 
miral  and  he  kind  of  hinted  that  he  'd  like  to  keep 
it  as  a  souvenir.  So  if  it's  agreeable  to  all  hands, 
we'll  accept  his  bid.  He  wrote  a  check  and  gave  it 
to  me,  and  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  he  came  across 
in  handsome  style." 

A  bugle  blew  to  mark  another  period  in  the  cease 
less  and  complex  activity  of  a  battleship.  The  crowd 
dispersed,  but  Jim  Cooney,  gunner's  mate,  lingered 
to  gaze  at  the  misty  headlands  and  the  passage  that 
led  out  to  the  North  Sea. 

"Poor  old  Henry  won't  have  to  worry  about  his 
orphan,"  he  said  to  himself.  "He  lost,  and  he  won. 
And  maybe  he  knows  all  about  it." 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN 

IN  a  bay  among  bleak  hills  of  the  Irish  coast,  an 
American  submarine  rolled  a  wet  back  out  of  water 
and  swam  slowly  ahead  like  a  tired  whale  coming  up 
to  breathe.  Through  the  top  of  the  conning  tower 
crawled  two  young  officers  who  found  room  to  stand 
upon  the  bit  of  canvas-screened  bridge  where  they 
faced  the  nipping  winter  wind  and  filled  their  lungs 
with  it.  Their  blue  uniforms  were  shabby  and  sea- 
stained,  the  trousers  stuffed  into  rubber  boots, 
heavy  sweaters  worn  beneath  the  blouses.  Their 
faces,  framed  in  knitted  helmets,  reminded  one  of 
athletes  trained  to  a  wire-edge,  as  though  their 
nervous  endurance  had  been  taxed  beyond  the 
ordinary.  The  elder  of  the  two  was  a  senior  lieu 
tenant  who  commanded  this  S-14  which  had  strayed 
so  very  far  from  home.  His  eyes  snapped  and  there 
was  no  trace  of  fatigue  in  his  voice  as  he  said: 

"I'll  bet  you  the  cigars  we  slipped  one  into  him 
that  time,  Pete!  What's  he  trying  to  wig- wag? 
Here,  take  the  glasses." 

The  navigator  gazed  at  another  submarine  which 
had  emerged  half  a  mile  away.  An  energetic  manikin 
of  a  sailor  was  waving  a  flag  in  a  series  of  jerky  mo 
tions  which  translated  themselves  into  the  message: 

"A  clean  hit.  Captain's  compliments.  Make  one 


more  run." 


The   commander   of    S-14   grinned    with    honest 


34  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

pride  and  danced  a  jig-step  to  warm  his  congealed 
toes.  This  was  the  last  day  of  practice  with  the 
British  submarine  flotilla,  the  end  of  weeks  of  mak 
ing  ready  to  fight  Fritz  with  his  own  weapon.  These 
Englishmen  knew  the  tricks  of  the  trade.  For  two 
years  they  had  been  playing  hide  and  seek  on  the 
North  Sea  patrol,  lurking  near  Heligoland  Bight, 
dodging  German  mine  fields,  ready  to  ram  or  torpedo 
at  glimpse  of  a  hostile  periscope  or  conning  tower 
awash.  They  had  been  successful,  although  the  cost 
was  heavy,  and  this  was  why  the  American  sub 
marines  had  made  a  wild  voyage  of  it  across  the 
Atlantic  in  mid- winter  to  join  forces. 

Down  below  in  S-14  the  crew  relaxed  during  the 
brief  respite  and  gathered  amidships  to  breathe  the 
sweet  air  which  gushed  through  the  open  hatch. 
They,  too,  were  muffled  and  booted  to  withstand 
the  damp  and  penetrating  chill  of  their  steel-walled 
prison.  They  suffered  their  manifold  discomforts 
with  an  amazing  and  courageous  good-nature  and 
rather  pitied  the  lads  who  had  been  left  on  home 
duty.  The  word  was  passed  that  they  had  officially 
destroyed  their  friendly  antagonist,  the  British  sub 
marine,  by  plunking  a  torpedo  with  a  dummy  head 
into  him  at  a  thousand  yards,  and  all  hands  seemed 
as  delighted  as  if  they  had  received  an  increase  of 
pay.  The  commander's  long  legs  came  clumping  down 
the  steel  ladder,  preceded  by  the  chubby  navigator. 
Then  the  round  hatch  plate  was  screwed  down,  the 
boat  was  again  tightly  sealed,  and  the  order  given  to 
stand  by  to  submerge. 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  35 

Deftly  trimmed,  the  boat  sank  with  a  slant  barely 
perceptible  and  hung  at  twenty-five  feet  while  the 
skipper  and  the  navigator  stood  at  the  two  periscopes 
and  turned  them  to  rake  the  wide  bay.  The  British 
submarine  had  vanished.  It  was  a  guessing  match. 
S-14  dropped  a  little  lower  until  the  exposed  sections 
of  her  slender  periscopes  had  sunk  beneath  the  sur 
face  lest  they  betray  her  position.  The  electric 
motors  purred  softly  in  the  brilliantly  lighted  com 
partment,  which  was  fairly  crammed  with  machinery. 
The  submarine  stole  ahead,  guided  by  the  gyro 
scope  compass  in  its  great  bowl.  A  few  minutes  and 
the  pumps  throbbed  as  water  was  expelled  from 
ballast  tanks.  The  boat  rose  a  little  for  a  hasty  ob 
servation  through  the  lenses  of  the  magical  tubes. 
The  skipper  discerned  something  that  looked  like 
a  bit  of  stick  floating  upright.  His  boat  turned, 
poised  itself,  and  the  gunners  crouching  at  the  for 
ward  torpedo  gearing  were  told  to  flood  the  port 
tube.  Presently  the  bow  lifted  a  trifle,  there  was  the 
cough  of  compressed  air  expanding,  and  the  long 
missile  sped  on  its  run. 

"All  done,"  said  the  skipper  to  the  sallow  en 
gineer  officer.  "Hook  her  up  and  let's  go  as  soon  as 
she  is  awash." 

Again  S-14  boiled  up  to  show  a  dripping  deck, 
and  this  time  as  many  of  the  crew  as  were  not  on 
watch  scrambled  outside  to  crowd  upon  the  narrow 
platform  and  greedily  light  cigarettes.  The  oil  en 
gines  sang  noisily  and  the  diving  rudders  folded 
back  against  the  hull  very  much  as  an  elephant 


36  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

moves  its  ears.  Presently  the  British  submarine  ap 
peared  and  laid  a  course  to  jog  homeward  in  a 
sociable  manner.  Her  commander  shouted  through 
a  megaphone: 

"A  close  call  —  that  last  run  of  yours  —  missed 
us  by  twenty  feet;  but  it  was  a  jolly  good  morning's 
work,  old  man." 

"Well,  I  scuppered  you  once,  and  that  is  usually 
considered  enough,"  replied  the  Yankee  lieutenant. 

"The  blighter  of  a  Hun  might  think  so,  what? 
Dinner  at  seven-thirty  to-night.  Don't  forget. 
Right-o!  See  you  later." 

Soon  the  two  submarines  steered  divergent  paths 
to  make  for  their  respective  mother  ships  which 
were  anchored  some  distance  apart.  S-14  slackened 
speed  and  turned  to  find  a  resting-place  against  the 
outermost  submarine  of  the  row  of  them  which 
snuggled  abreast  beside  the  big  steamer.  The  crew 
poured  out  and  recklessly  footed  it  across  the  narrow 
planks  from  one  deck  to  the  next,  and  dived  into  the 
spacious  quarters  of  this  mother  ship,  where  they 
could  eat  hot  meals  at  real  tables  and  find  room  to 
swing  hammocks  until  the  call  should  come  for  the 
first  long  tour  of  patrol  duty.  Lieutenant  James 
Slayback,  skipper  of  S-14,  stripped  off  his  greasy 
garments,  danced  under  a  hot  shower,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  array  himself  in  a  spick-and-span  uni 
form.  This  was  likewise  the  programme  of  Peter 
Morton,  navigating  lieutenant,  and  young  Penfield, 
engineer  officer. 

They  went  off  in  a  launch  to  the  British  ship. 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  37 

which  had  once  been  an  Australian  liner,  and  were 
escorted  into  the  ward-room  as  guests  of  a  score 
of  submarine  officers  who  might  have  told  you  some 
thing  about  what  the  Royal  Navy  was  doing.  But 
they  turned  red  and  were  frightfully  embarrassed 
when  one  questioned  them  about  their  own  exploits, 
and  preferred  to  talk  shop  among  themselves  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  manner.  Cordial  and  genuine 
was  the  hospitality  displayed  toward  the  American 
guests.  They  were  all  men  of  the  same  trade  with  a 
feeling  of  mutual  respect.  There  was  no  such  thing 
as  bluffing  it  in  submarines.  The  officers  were  picked 
men,  survivals  of  the  fittest. 

After  dinner  the  captain  commanding  the  British 
flotilla  entered  the  ward-room  to  greet  the  visitors 
and  bid  them  god-speed.  Their  admiring  gaze  was 
held  by  the  bit  of  ribbon  upon  the  breast  of  his  coat. 
It  was  the  token  of  the  Victoria  Cross.  No  words 
could  have  conveyed,,  with  such  thrilling  emphasis, 
what  men  had  dared  and  done  in  submarines.  The 
captain's  manner  was  winsome,  his  demeanor  almost 
shy,  but  the  occasion  seemed  to  demand  a  speech  of 
some  sort  and  he  said: 

"It  has  been  awfully  pleasant  to  have  you  Ameri 
cans  with  us.  You  have  shown  no  end  of  pluck  and 
—  er  —  not  a  bit  of  what  we  used  to  call  Yankee 
brag,  don't  you  know.  It  was  a  mistaken  impression, 
I  fancy.  Tourists  and  that  sort  of  thing  may  have 
fostered  it.  And  I  imagine  you  thought  the  English 
man  was  an  ass.  There  were  some  dreadful  bounders 
traveling  about  —  impossible  persons  who  posed  as 


38  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

typical  Britons.  However,  we  begin  to  know  each 
other  a  trifle  better,  I  'm  sure. 

"  Er  —  your  S-14  will  be  the  first  American  sub 
marine  to  finish  training  and  be  assigned  to  sea  duty. 
I  have  encountered  Fritz  several  times  —  that  is  to 
say,  I  was  lucky  enough  to  strafe  a  U-boat  or  two, 
if  you  will  pardon  this  personal  reference.  I  mention 
it  merely  to  assure  you  that  the  Hun  is  a  cowardly 
fighter  at  close  quarters  in  submarine  warfare.  He 
does  n't  like  it.  Go  at  him  hell-f or-leather  and  you  '11 
get  his  wind  up.  This  service  of  ours  is  uncomfortable 
and  all  that,  but  it's  immensely  sporting.  One  is 
rather  certain  to  have  a  run  for  his  money,  which  is 
what  we  are  here  for,  is  n't  it?  Gentlemen  of  the  ward 
room,  I  propose  the  health  of  S-14  and  her  gallant 
officers  and  men!  Here's  to  a  successful  cruise  and 
our  hearts  will  be  with  you." 

The  fine  simplicity  of  this  farewell  touched  the 
emotions  of  the  guests,  who  briefly  spoke  their  thanks 
like  manly  sailors.  This  evening  in  the  ward-room 
impressed  them  with  the  fact  that  in  addition  to  the 
high  traditions  of  the  American  naval  service  as  an 
inspiration  they  were  inseparably  linked  with  the 
cause  of  their  British  comrades.  For  the  time  they 
were  as  one  navy  and  England  was  glad  to  honor  such 
victories  as  they  might  win.  When  the  three  Ameri 
cans  had  returned  to  their  own  ship,  they  sat  and 
smoked  in  Lieutenant  Jim  Slayback's  cabin  and  con 
cluded  that  there  was  no  life  like  hunting  the  foe  in  a 
submarine. 

Two  days  after  this,  S-14  moved  out  of  the  bay, 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  39 

running  on  the  surface,  and  the  bold  coasts  of  Ireland 
dropped  slowly  astern.  At  sunset  the  solitary  sub 
marine  was  a  speck  on  the  surface  of  a  rolling  ocean 
otherwise  untenanted.  Not  yet  compelled  to  sub 
merge,  she  held  on  her  way  through  the  night  and 
moved  at  ten  knots  toward  the  area  designated  as  a 
patrol  block.  The  crew  slept  and  stood  watch  in  turn, 
curling  up  on  the  floor  or  in  odd  corners,  stowing 
themselves  as  best  they  could,  never  bothering  to  re 
move  their  clothes.  They  led  what  would  have  been 
called  an  intolerable  existence  ashore. 

When  daylight  came,  S-14  began  to  find  the  voyage 
otherwise  than  monotonous.  A  British  seaplane,  soar 
ing  like  a  great  bird  of  prey,  came  swooping  out  of 
the  east  at  a  hundred  miles  an  hour.  The  American 
submarine  dallied  not  to  attempt  a  recognition  sig 
nal,  but  dived  in  haste.  Into  the  foaming  wash  as  she 
went  under,  the  vigilant  seaplane  dropped  two  depth 
bombs  which  exploded  with  annoying  violence.  They 
shook  S-14  from  bow  to  stern,  smashed  a  dozen  elec 
tric-light  bulbs,  and  caused  the  coffee-pot  to  jump  off 
the  heater.  This  last  calamity  was  resented  by  Lieu 
tenant  James  Slayback,  who  testily  remarked  to  the 
navigator: 

"I  call  that  discourteous,  to  heave  bombs  on  us 
just  at  breakfast-time.  The  fool  of  a  seaplane  has 
scalded  a  perfectly  good  cook,  and  came  mighty  near 
getting  our  number." 

"Yes,  and  he'll  probably  claim  that  he  potted  a 
Hun,"  bitterly  replied  Peter  Morton.  "That's  the 
only  part  of  this  game  that  I  don't  fancy.  Your  own 


40  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

friends  seem  so  infernally  anxious  to  put  a  crimp  in 
you." 

For  the  rest  of  the  day,  S-14  went  warily,  with  an 
eye  coeked  for  trouble,  as  one  might  say.  It  was  safer 
to  stay  submerged,  for  she  was  crossing  the  routes 
of  merchant  traffic  and  gunners  were  alert  to  blaze 
away  at  the  first  glimpse  of  a  periscope.  Reluctant  to 
run  on  his  storage  batteries  any  more  than  could  be 
helped,  the  commander  made  a  surface  run  whenever 
the  sea  seemed  clear,  but  an  American  destroyer 
caught  him  at  it  and  surged  at  thirty  knots  to  ram 
and  scatter  the  merry  depth  bombs.  It  was  then  that 
the  hunted  submarine  broke  its  best  record  for  quick 
submersion  and  slid  a  hundred  and  forty  feet  toward 
the  bottom  before  the  flickering  needles  of  the  depth 
gauges  showed  that  she  was  held  and  steadied. 

"*This  service  of  ours  is  immensely  sporting, 
what?*"  pensively  echoed  Navigating  Lieutenant 
Peter  Morton  as  he  wiped  a  perspiring  brow.  "'One 
is  rather  certain  to  have  a  run  for  his  money,  don't 
you  know." 

"And  the  executive  of  that  destroyer  is  a  cousin  of 
mine.  He  owes  me  money,"  said  Slayback.  "I  recog 
nized  the  boat  in  spite  of  her  drunken  dazzle  paint. 
He  has  visions  of  a  "well  done*  signal  from  Admiral 
Sims." 

"Well,  we'll  soon  be  clear  of  those  wild-eyed  de 
stroyers,  Jim.  They  don't  frequent  our  beat." 

"Out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire,  Pete.  Those 
British  destroyers  are  wide-awake,  believe  me.  And 
the  trawlers  lay  miles  of  nets  with  neat  little 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  41 

mines  tied  to  'em.  It 's  up  to  you  to  keep  clear  of 
them." 

"They  are  plainly  marked  on  our  Admiralty 
charts,  but  I  can't  answer  for  the  set  of  the  tides  and 
currents,"  was  the  cheerful  reply.  "And  the  con 
founded  nets  and  mines  are  always  going  adrift  and 
then  you  bump  into  'em  where  they  had  n't  ought  to 
be.  Did  you  know  I  own  a  farm  in  Virginia?  An  uncle 
wished  it  on  me.  There  are  times  when  it  appeals/' 

The  submarine  veered  from  the  wide  Atlantic  and 
crept  into  shoaling  waters.  She  groped  and  felt  her 
way  through  perils  unseen  where  an  error  of  judg 
ment  or  a  blunder  in  direction  meant  instant  death. 
There  was  no  opportunity  to  climb  on  deck  and  find 
relief  from  the  cramped  quarters  and  heavy,  clammy 
air.  The  grimmest  part  of  the  long  ordeal  had  begun. 
For  hours  she  would  lie  on  the  bottom  while  the  offi 
cers  clamped  the  receiver  of  the  listening  device  to 
their  ears  and  the  delicate  microphones  conveyed  the 
distant  sounds  of  a  throbbing  engine  or  the  beat  of  a 
propeller.  The  hardships  were  not  so  severe  and  un 
remitting  as  during  the  stormy  winter  passage  across 
the  Atlantic,  but  the  nervous  tension  was  more  acute. 

This  was  the  first  cruise  on  actual  patrol  against 
the  enemy.  The  conditions  were  novel.  Their  task 
was  to  intercept  the  predatory  U-boats  as  they  fol 
lowed  the  secret  channels  in  and  out  through  their 
own  mine  fields.  It  was  one  thing  to  hunt  them,  an 
other  thing  to  feel  that  they  might  be  also  hunting 
you.  At  intervals  more  or  less  regular  S-14  lifted  her 
periscopes  and  scanned  the  sea  around  the  circle  of 


42  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  horizon.  The  weather  was  rough,  and  if  they 
tried  to  lie  awash  and  open  a  hatch  at  night,  a  gray 
comber  was  likely  to  slap  aboard  and  flood  the  boat. 
They  had  to  risk  it  now  and  then,  of  course,  in  order 
to  freshen  the  air  below.  After  ten  or  twelve  hours  of 
submersion,  headaches  were  common  and  one  had  to 
fight  drowsiness.  The  men  suffered  from  lack  of  exer 
cise,  and  the  monotony  was  deadly. 

Now  Lieutenant  James  Slayback  was  a  first-class 
submarine  officer  and  as  a  commander  he  had  won 
the  confidence  of  his  crew.  His  physique  was  not  ro 
bust,  however,  and  his  nerves  were  strung  too  taut. 
The  winter  of  terrifically  hard  work  had  wearied  him 
more  than  he  realized.  He  had  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  a 
few  days'  leave  and  a  trip  to  London  while  training 
with  the  British  flotilla. 

Under  the  strain  of  this  cruise  on  patrol  his  temper 
became  a  bit  ragged,  although  he  was  unaware  of  it. 
Chubby  Peter  Morton,  whose  well-cushioned  body 
sheltered  the  soul  of  an  imperturbable  optimist,  per 
ceived  that  the  skipper's  feelings  were  easily  hurt.  He 
discussed  it  with  young  Penfield,  the  engineer  officer, 
who  was  too  busy  with  the  temperamental  machinery 
and  batteries  to  think  about  himself. 

"The  old  man  is  as  irritable  as  a  setting  hen,"  ob 
served  Peter.  "He  bawled  out  the  boatswain's  mate 
this  morning  for  no  reason  at  all.  And  this  made  some 
of  the  other  men  sulky.  You  have  to  humor  'em, 
'specially  when  they  are  shy  of  sleep  and  haven't 
had  a  smoke  for  two  days." 

"I've  noticed  it,"  agreed  young  Penfield.  "But  we 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  43 

must  jolly  him  along  and  swallow  his  insults.  He  is 
the  best  that  ever  was." 

"It's  the  wife  and  baby,"  sagely  suggested  the 
navigator,  who  was  a  dashing  bachelor.  "Jim  is  one 
of  those  family  men  that  take  it  awful  hard.  He  has 
never  seen  the  baby.  It  was  born  after  we  came  over, 
and  he  sits  and  fusses  and  yearns  and  worries  until  it 
gets  his  goat." 

"Single  men  for  submarine  service,"  said  the  senti 
mental  engineer,  who  had  left  a  girl  in  every  port.  "  I 
don't  mind  telling  you,  Pete,  that  I  am  in  love,  and 
she  is  a  perfect  dream  —  but  as  for  mourning  over  her 
—  nix  on  that  stuff." 

"Right  you  are,  old  top.  Now,  if  I  had  a  wife  and 
she  knew  I  was  sitting  down  here  under  fifty  feet  of 
water,  waiting  to  see  if  Fritz  gets  me  before  I  get 
him,  I'll  bet  she  would  worry  a  lot  about  me.  That's 
the  way  women  are  built.  There  is  my  mother,  for  in 
stance.  She's  as  brave  as  they  make  'em,  but  she 
did  n't  like  it  when  I  was  assigned  to  submarine  duty 


overseas." 


The  cook  interrupted  to  tell  that  supper  was  ready, 
so  they  joined  the  commander  at  a  tiny,  swinging 
table  in  the  open  space  amidships  which  was  dubbed 
the  ward-room  by  courtesy.  Lieutenant  Jim  Slayback 
scowled  at  the  canned  beans  and  sliced  ham,  and  had 
little  to  say  until  Peter  Morton,  in  an  amiable  effort 
to  promote  sociability,  ventured  to  exclaim: 

"By  Jove,  you  haven't  shown  us  the  baby's  pic 
ture  more  than  twice  to-day!  Trot  it  out  again  and 
brighten  our  cheerless  lives." 


44  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

There  was  a  tone  of  persiflage  which  the  skipper 
obviously  resented,  but  the  topic  was  so  dear  to 
him  that  he  eagerly  replied: 

"It  must  be  a  wonder  of  an  infant.  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  boast,  but  he  is  an  extraordinary  youngster  for 
four  months.  I  give  you  my  word  — " 

"The  image  of  its  daddy,  of  course,"  gravely  ob 
served  the  navigator,  who  had  a  fatal  weakness  for 
teasing.  "It  walks,  talks,  and  tells  all  visitors  that  it 
was  sired  by  the  most  promising  and  efficient  officer 
in  this  man's  navy." 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Pete!"  snapped  the  proud  parent. 
"I  didn't  mean  to  bore  you.  I'll  stow  the  picture 
away." 

"By  no  means,  Jim.  If  the  child  inherits  your  dis 
position,  it  must  be  a  little  gleam  of  sunshine.  Try  a 
plate  of  beans." 

"The  grub  is  rotten,  and  you're  a  cursed  nuisance 
with  your  eternal  joshing!"  hotly  retorted  the  skip 
per. 

Poor  Morton  perceived  that  he  had  blundered.  His 
innocent  merriment  was  ill-timed.  The  engineer 
nudged  him,  and  he  replied,  with  feeling: 

"That's  a  bit  strong,  Jim.  You  don't  really  mean 
it.  I'm  sorry  if  I  rubbed  you  the  wrong  way,  but  I 
think  you  owe  me  an  apology." 

"Apology  be  hanged.  It's  time  somebody  put  the 
lid  on  your  chatter!"  cried  Slayback,  shoving  his 
plate  aside. 

"Whew,  you  are  pleasant  to  live  with,  aren't 
you?"  rapped  out  the  navigator,  who  had  a  temper 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  45 

of  his  own.  "My  chatter,  as  you  call  it,  will  annoy 
you  no  longer.  It's  all  off." 

"Thank  God  for  that,"  growled  the  other  man  as 
he  left  the  table.  "Stand  by  to  blow  tanks.  I'm  going 
up  to  take  a  look-see  before  dark." 

From  her  resting-place  on  the  sandy  bottom,  S-14 
floated  toward  the  surface  with  positive  buoyancy. 
Instead  of  breaking  water  she  paused  quiescent  and 
concealed  while  only  the  tops  of  the  periscope  tubes 
betrayed  her  presence.  The  wind  was  dying  with  the 
sun  and  the  sea  had  subsided.  The  air  was  unusually 
clear.  The  field  of  vision  was  unmarred.  The  skipper 
stood  at  the  eye-piece,  gripping  the  handles  with 
which  he  revolved  the  long  tube.  As  he  slowly  swung 
it,  a  startled  ejaculation  burst  from  his  lips.  Sharply 
defined  in  miniature,  he  beheld  the  outline  of  a  sub 
marine  etched  black  against  the  rim  where  sea  and 
sky  met.  The  powerful  lenses  disclosed  this  other 
boat  as  awash  with  conning  tower  exposed,  and  mov 
ing  at  a  leisurely  gait  as  though  confident  that  no 
danger  threatened. 

The  skipper  of  S-14  marked  the  course  which  the 
distant  submarine  was  steering.  It  was  an  enemy, 
bound  in  from  an  offshore  cruise.  No  friendly  boats 
would  be  found  in  this  patrol  area.  Steady  and  cool, 
his  ragged  nerves  forgotten,  Lieutenant  Jim  Slayback 
swiftly  calculated  what  should  be  done.  A  gesture 
told  the  navigator  to  jump  to  the  other  periscope. 
They  gazed  for  a  moment  in  silence  and  glanced  at 
the  compass.  Together  they  worked  out  the  enemy's 
speed  and  direction  and  the  angle  of  intersection  for 


46  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

S-14.  A  word  of  command  and  the  crew  went  quietly 
about  their  several  duties.  There  was  no  excitement, 
but  an  eagerness  tense,  restrained,  disciplined,  to 
commit  no  faults,  to  operate  the  boat  at  the  top- 
notch  of  efficiency.  As  still  as  graven  images  the  two 
petty  officers  sat  perched  upon  their  stools  in  front  of 
the  depth  gauges  and  controlled  the  mechanism  of  the 
diving  rudders  as  a  good  rider  feels  the  mouth  of  a 
spirited  horse. 

"I  doubt  if  Fritz  caught  a  glimpse  of  us,"  muttered 
Slayback,  who  was  talking  to  himself.  "We  were  al 
most  in  the  path  of  the  sun  with  no  more  than  three 
feet  of  periscope  showing." 

"Ready  to  dive,  there!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  slightly 
louder  voice.  "Crack  the  main  valve!  Lively,  now! 
Hold  her  at  thirty  feet  and  go  ahead  on  your  mo 
tors." 

Wholly  beneath  the  surface,  S-14  stole  forward, 
blind  and  yet  directed  by  a  trained  intelligence  which 
had  been  arduously  schooled  for  just  such  an  episode 
as  this.  Her  speed  increased,  reckless  of  draining  the 
precious  current  from  the  storage  batteries.  The  skip 
per  held  his  watch  in  his  hand,  checking  off  the  run, 
minute  by  minute.  S-14  rose  a  little  and  the  wake  of 
the  periscope  made  a  V-shaped  ripple.  It  was  for  a 
momentary  observation.  Then  they  vanished.  The 
course  had  been  true.  The  U-boat  was  no  more  than 
four  hundred  yards  distant.  Slayback  ordered  the 
helmsman  to  swerve  a  trifle  to  starboard.  Then  from 
where  he  stood  at  the  periscope  he  pulled  trigger, 
once,  again,  and  launched  both  bow  torpedoes. 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  47 

Breathlessly  all  hands  waited  for  the  muffled  shock 
of  an  explosion.  Nothing  happened. 

"Missed  with  both  barrels,"  groaned  the  naviga 
tor.  "For  Heaven's  sake,  Jim,  let  me  have  a  squint 
at  him." 

The  disgusted  skipper  told  his  men  to  let  her  come 
up.  Then  he  perceived  that  the  U-boat,  taking  alarm, 
had  veered  from  her  course  in  a  desperate  zigzag  ma 
neuver  and  baffled  the  torpedo  attack  in  the  nick  of 
time.  Fritz  was  about  to  dive  in  a  tremendous  hurry 
and  hunt  for  safety  in  the  depths.  He  could  not  fire  his 
own  torpedoes  without  swinging  so  as  to  bring  his 
broadside  to  bear  and  he  cared  not  to  risk  making 
himself  so  easy  a  target. 

"Full  speed  ahead  and  ram  the  son  of  a  gun!" 
yelled  Slayback,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  image  in  the 
periscope.  "He's  ducked  like  a  scared  rabbit.  Cut 
him  in  two!  Hold  her  as  she  is.  Easy  with  the 
helm.  He's  our  meat.  Look  out  for  the  devil  of  a 
bump." 

The  American  submarine  rushed  forward  for  a 
hundred  yards  before  slanting  upward  to  finish  her 
charge.  It  was  to  be  a  duel  on  the  surface  if  she  could 
overtake  the  U-boat  before  it  fled  to  cover.  Taken  by 
surprise,  perhaps  dazed  by  this  deadly  onslaught,  the 
German  sailors  were  not  swift  enough.  Their  boat  had 
begun  to  settle.  The  deck  was  under  water,  but  the 
conning  tower  was  still  visible,  and  from  its  top  a  long 
heavy  wire  cable  or  stay  which  extended  to  a  ring 
bolt  in  the  bow. 

S-14  arrived  just  too  late  for  the  head-on  collision 


48  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

which  would  have  crushed  the  enemy's  hull  like  an 
egg.  Instead  of  this  terrific  impact,  the  rounded, 
blunt-nosed  bow  slid  across  the  enemy's  deck  with  a 
jar  and  a  scrape  which  knocked  the  American  crew 
this  way  and  that.  The  attacking  submarine  failed  to 
pass  over  the  half-submerged  U-boat,  and  halted 
abruptly,  seemed  to  rebound,  then  hung  where  she 
was,  the  two  boats  somehow  interlocked.  S-14  could 
neither  back  away  nor  forge  ahead.  She  was  resting 
across  the  U-boat,  the  two  hulls  at  right  angles  to 
each  other. 

"Any  damage?"  Lieutenant  Slay  back  anxiously 
asked  his  engineer. 

"Motors  turning  over  all  right,  sir,  and  her  skin 
seems  as  tight  as  a  bottle,"  calmly  answered  young 
Penfield  whose  sallow  complexion  showed  a  distinct 
pallor.  "We  seem  to  have  waltzed  on  top  of  old  Fritz 
with  the  intention  of  roosting  there.  It 's  '  immensely 
sporting/  really." 

"My  word,  yes,"  blandly  chimed  in  the  navigator. 
"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?  Fritz  is  still 
going  down." 

The  commander  appeared  absurdly  perplexed,  but 
rallied  to  say:  "This  beats  me,  and  then  some.  Try  to 
hold  him  up,  if  you  can,  and  perhaps  we  can  get  clear. 
If  we  are  able  to  lay  him  aboard,  it  will  be  an  old- 
fashioned  scrap.  Rifles  and  cutlasses,  boys.  Get  'em 
ready,  and  fix  bayonets." 

There  were  yelps  of  delight  as  the  men  jumped  for 
the  racks,  but  the  engineer  who  stood  by  the  pumps 
and  motors  with  his  machinist's  mates  was  seen  to 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  49 

shake  his  head  in  a  dubious  manner.  Intent  on  his 
job  he  exclaimed: 

"If  the  darned  Hun  is  heading  for  the  bottom,  I 
guess  we  have  to  go  along  with  him.  And  I  don't  see 
ourselves  getting  clear.  What  did  we  do,  Pete?  Jam 
our  nose  under  that  wire  stay  that  is  stretched  from 
his  conning  tower?" 

"Precisely  that,  dear  old  thing,"  replied  the  navi 
gator.  "That  wire  stay  of  his  has  a  saw- toothed  edge 
and  is  rigged  to  cut  through  nets.  It  will  stand  more 
strain  than  we  can  put  on  it,  all  right.  We  drove  under 
it  and  caught  ourselves  on  something  or  other." 

S-14  was  trying  to  rise  by  emptying  ballast  tanks 
as  fast  as  the  water  could  be  blown  out  of  them,  but 
the  fateful  depth  gauges  showed  that  she  was  very 
slowly  going  down  at  an  uncomfortable  slant.  The 
crew  was  no  longer  elated,  and  the  men  who  had  been 
buckling  on  the  cutlass-belts  were  waiting  for  fur 
ther  orders.  Although  undismayed  they  were  hushed. 
They  confided  to  each  other  in  whispers.  In  the  bright 
illumination  of  the  electric  bulbs,  their  youthful  faces 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  haggard  with  anx 
iety.  The  boatswain's  mate,  who  was  a  veteran  at  the 
submarine  game,  swore  in  a  peevish  manner.  This 
seemed  to  ease  the  strain.  One  or  two  men  laughed. 

The  commander  was  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts, 
weighing  his  knowledge  and  experience,  testing  this 
conclusion  and  that.  He  knew  that  his  men  were 
keenly  watching  him.  In  this  supreme  crisis  he  was 
the  hope  of  salvation.  It  was  possible  that  he  had 
damaged  the  German  submarine  sufficiently  to  dent 


50  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

or  start  the  plates  and  rivets  and  cause  leakage.  In 
this  event  the  enemy  was  slowly  drowning  instead  of 
deliberately  diving,  but  there  was  no  way  of  getting 
at  the  facts.  Slay  back  pored  over  the  chart  to  which 
the  navigator  silently  called  his  attention.  The  depth 
of  water  was  marked  as  ten  fathoms,  or  sixty  feet,  a 
stretch  of  sandy  bottom  where  the  sea  was  compara 
tively  shoal.  Locked  in  a  deadly  embrace  like  two 
monsters  of  the  deep  which  had  blindly  grappled 
with  each  other,  the  two  submarines  were  vanishing 
from  the  surface  upon  which  they  would  leave  no 
trace. 

"Fritz  is  dragging  us  down  with  him,"  admitted 
the  commander  as  he  looked  up  from  the  chart.  "We 
can't  get  buoyancy  enough  to  hold  up  all  that  dead 
weight.  And  we  don't  seem  to  be  wiggling  out  of  the 


mess." 


"Nothing  doing,"  agreed  Peter  Morton,  trying  to 
steady  his  voice.  "We  got  our  Hun,  first  crack  out  of 
the  box,  but  we  don't  know  what  to  do  with  the 
blighter.  Anyhow,  he  can't  be  feeling  very  snappy 
himself." 

Slayback's  manner  was  curiously  formal,  as  though 
he  could  not  forget  the  affronts  exchanged  over  the 
supper-table. 

"Better  turn  off  some  of  the  lights,  Mr.  Morton. 
There's  no  sense  in  wasting  current.  We  may  be 
under  water  for  some  time." 

There  was  no  sense  of  motion  within  the  submarine 
excepting  a  somewhat  sharper  slant  of  the  floor  as  she 
continued  to  descend.  Occasionally  a  slight  tremor 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  51 

passed  through  the  steel  shell  of  the  hull  as  the  keel 
scraped  upon  the  deck  of  the  U-boat.  It  was  futile  to 
attempt  release  by  means  of  the  motors.  If  the  wire 
stay  should  break  under  the  strain,  S-14  would  in 
stantly  shoot  up  to  the  surface  with  every  ounce  of 
buoyancy  she  possessed.  Young  Penfield  rubbed  a 
grimy  nose  and  spoke  what  was  in  every  one's  mind. 

"A  diver  could  cut  that  stay  and  free  us  in  a  jiffy." 

A  boyish  seaman  giggled  at  this  and  was  unable  to 
check  his  mirth.  It  was  a  symptom  of  hysteria.  The 
commander  threw  up  his  head  and  stood  as  erect  as 
if  on  parade.  He  was  indomitable.  Sternly  he  ex 
claimed  : 

"None  of  that  stuff,  boys.  You  are  not  that  kind. 
The  Navy  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty,  sink  or 
swim.  We  are  not  licked,  by  a  long  shot.  This  is  n't 
the  first  submarine  that  has  had  to  sit  on  the  bottom 
when  she  did  n't  want  to.  I  don't  expect  to  hear  any 
growling  until  we  have  stood  twenty-four  hours  of  it. 
I'm  not  going  to  twiddle  my  thumbs,  understand?" 

Some  of  them  grinned  at  this,  and  a  few  stretched 
themselves  on  the  floor  with  coats  or  sweaters  under 
their  heads.  They  would  have  to  go  on  watch  later  in 
the  night,  but  it  might  have  been  observed  that  they 
stared  at  the  ceiling  and  felt  no  desire  for  sleep.  S-14 
had  finished  the  descent  and  was  now  stable.  Her  bow 
was  upheld  by  the  U-boat  upon  which  she  rested.  It 
was  comprehended  by  the  American  officers  that 
nothing  more  could  be  done  until  morning  came.  The 
sea  above  them  was  enveloped  in  darkness.  Any 
scheme  for  revealing  their  plight  to  passing  ships 


52  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

must  wait  for  the  light.  They  fell  to  wondering  what 
had  happened  to  the  U-boat  and  its  imprisoned  crew 
separated  from  them  only  by  the  steel  plates  of  the 
two  hulls. 

After  a  time  they  heard  sounds  of  metal  striking 
metal,  like  the  rap-rap  of  machinists'  hammers.  It 
was  uncanny,  painful  to  listen  to,  for  the  men  trapped 
in  S-14  felt  no  inclination  to  gloat  over  a  foe  who  was 
in  the  same  tragic  predicament.  The  Huns  deserved 
it,  but  there  are  limits  to  vengeance.  The  noise  of 
hammers  and  other  tools  became  louder,  more  in 
sistent,  as  though  the  artisans  were  toiling  in  a  frenzy 
of  haste. 

"We  busted  things  for  'em  somehow,"  said  Peter 
Morton,  his  ear  against  the  side  of  the  boat.  "They 
are  certainly  trying  to  make  repairs." 

"We  did  our  best  to  drown  the  pirates,"  replied  the 
engineer.  "Maybe  we  turned  that  same  little  trick." 

"Do  you  know,  I'd  be  mighty  glad  to  find  their 
boat  is  sound  and  tight!"  exclaimed  Peter,  as  one  ad 
vancing  a  bright  idea.  "Sooner  or  later  they  would 
have  to  blow  tanks  and  carry  us  up  with  them.  They 
may  think  we  are  holding  them  down  on  purpose,  to 
see  who  cracks  first." 

"Foolish,  my  son.  I  hate  to  dispute  you,"  said 
young  Penfield.  "That  U-boat  is  in  trouble.  And  it  is 
not  motors  or  diving  gear.  I  can  tell  by  the  sounds. 
The  beggars  are  doing  their  darndest  to  keep  the 
water  out.  Their  boat  is  flooding." 

The  surmise  was  correct,  as  was  proved  at  mid 
night.  There  was  no  more  rat-tat  of  hammers,  but 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  53 

significant  silence.  At  length,  and  after  a  long  inter 
val,  there  came  a  faint  tapping.  It  was  cadenced  and 
methodical,  repeated  again  and  again.  The  navigator 
of  S-14  pricked  up  his  ears  and  looked  bewildered. 
He  barkened  intently.  Then  he  said  to  the  com 
mander  : 

"A  message  —  international  Morse  —  it's  in  Eng 
lish.  Write  it  down  as  I  spell  it  out." 

Slayback  picked  up  a  pencil  and  jotted  down  the 
letters.  The  men  approached  and  peered  over  his 
shoulder.  They  felt  awe,  as  though  a  ghost  were 
trying  to  signal  them.  Upon  the  slip  of  paper  they 
watched  the  letters  group  themselves  into  these  two 
words : 

"WE    S-U-R-R-E-N-D-E-R  — 

They  listened,  in  strained  suspense.  A  few  minutes 
passed  and  the  metallic  rapping  was  resumed,  but 
more  feebly,  with  a  halting  irregularity.  It  attempted 
to  convey  the  same  message,  but  got  no  farther  than 

"W-E    S-U-R-R-E-N-D  — 

Another  long  pause,  and  barely  audible  was  the 
word: 

"H-E-L-P  —  " 

This  was  the  last  call  from  the  U-boat.  The  silence 
remained  unbroken.  Lieutenant  Peter  Morton  re 
marked,  in  subdued  accents: 

"I  guessed  right.  They  did  think  we  were  trying  to 
hold  them  down.  Well,  there  9s  one  U-boat  crossed  off 
the  list.  Filled  to  the  hatches  and  all  hands  dead." 

"I  don't  want  to  croak,"  confided  young  Penfield, 
careful  lest  he  be  overheard  by  the  men,  "but  it 


54  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

looks  as  if  we  had  played  our  last  bet.  I  was  gam 
bling  on  the  hope  that  Fritz  might  shove  us  up  to  the 
top." 

Conversation  lagged.  There  were  brooding  lapses. 
The  boatswain's  mate  had  climbed  from  the  stool  in 
front  of  his  depth  gauge  and  was  thumbing  a  greasy 
pack  of  cards  in  a  solitaire  which  presaged  good  luck 
whenever  it  came  out  right,  which  had  happened 
twice  in  four  years. 

"I  wish  the  guy  that  invented  this  solitaire  gadget 
was  cooped  up  with  us,"  he  grumbled  to  himself. 
"I'd  treat  him  rough.  This  is  the  night  for  her  to 
come  through.  King  on  a  jack  and  I'm  ditched  again, 
by  cripes." 

The  commander  sat  by  the  little  table,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  his  eyes  half-closed.  His  lip 
twitched  and  one  foot  moved  restlessly.  His  brain 
was  so  active  that  the  thoughts  seemed  to  revolve  in 
fiery  circles,  to  be  searing  grooves  as  they  incessantly 
pursued  one  another.  It  was  approaching  the  hour  of 
dawn  when  he  rose  abruptly  and  beckoned  his  two 
officers.  The  air  in  the  submarine  was  becoming  foul. 
They  found  it  difficult  to  ward  off  drowsiness.  Morton 
picked  up  the  coffee-pot  and  took  three  cups  from  the 
rack. 

Slayback  regarded  them  with  somber  earnestness 
before  he  said:  "You  heard  Captain  Barnard  tell  the 
yarn  one  night  aboard  the  British  mother  ship.  He 
called  it  one  chance  in  a  million,  but  he  won." 

"Yes,  but  that  was  different,"  argued  Norton. 
"He  was  in  home  waters,  close  to  Harwich,  and  the 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  55 

destroyers  were  looking  for  his  boat.  They  knew 
pretty  well  where  he  had  gone  down.  We  are  well  over 
toward  the  German  coast  and  the  chance  of  being 
picked  up  is  far  from  merry  and  bright." 

"If  a  Hun  finds  one  of  us  men  floating  about," 
suggested  the  engineer,  "he  will  thank  you  for  the 
information  and  drop  a  few  bombs  on  poor  old  S-14 
instead  of  trying  to  fish  her  up." 

"I  realize  all  that,"  stubbornly  protested  the  com 
mander,  "but  one  chance  in  a  million  is  better  than 
none  at  all.  And  you  know  what  will  happen  to  us 
within  the  next  forty-eight  hours." 

"Please  don't  mention  it,"  courteously  exclaimed 
Morton.  "We  can  blow  some  fresh  atmosphere  into 
the  boat  from  the  compressed  air  flasks,  but  that 
will  only  defer  the  what-do-you-call-'em  —  the  ob 
sequies.  I  feel  far  from  blithesome  this  morning. 
Our  goose  appears  to  be  most  thoroughly  cooked." 

"One  of  us  three  must  go  up  in  the  bubble,"  an 
nounced  the  skipper,  "with  a  coil  of  light  line  and 
some  kind  of  a  buoy.  He  can  stay  afloat  for  several 
hours  with  a  kapok  vest  on.  I  stand  by  the  ship,  of 
course,  and  the  engineer  officer  is  indispensable.  He 
can't  be  spared.  You  are  elected,  Morton." 

"It  means  a  chance  of  life  for  the  man  who  goes  up 
in  the  bubble,  and  only  one  can  go,"  slowly  spoke  the 
navigator.  "It  is  a  mighty  slim  chance,  but  just  that 
much  better  than  no  chance  at  all." 

"About  an  even  break,  whether  you  try  it  or  stay 
down  here,"  said  the  skipper,  "but  a  man  prefers  to 
die  in  the  open  air  if  he  can." 


56  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Here  is  where  I  mutiny!"  exclaimed  Peter  Mor 
ton.  "I  pass  the  buck.  After  you,  my  dear  Jim." 

"Shut  up  and  listen  to  me!"  flared  Slayback. 
"This  is  your  superior  officer  talking." 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  calmly  replied  the  navi 
gator.  "Penfield  and  I  were  discussing  things  when 
you  called  us.  I  am  strong  for  the  bubble  idea,  but 
you  have  picked  the  wrong  man.  I  am  not  joshing, 
Jim,  and  for  God's  sake  keep  your  temper.  It's  that 
wife  and  baby  of  yours,  old  man  —  the  grandest 
baby  in  the  Navy.  I  am  free,  single,  and  otherwise 
inconsequential.  Therefore  I  refuse  to  soar  in  the 
bubble." 

"Nonsense!  You  will  do  what  I  tell  you!"  angrily 
retorted  the  skipper.  "Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to 
shirk  my  duty?" 

Morton  appeared  to  hesitate  and  evaded  the  issue. 
In  terms  highly  technical  the  trio  thrashed  out  the 
details  of  the  hoped-for  escape  through  the  conning 
tower.  It  had  been  done  only  once  in  submarine  his 
tory,  and  this  was  one  reason  why  Captain  Barnard 
wore  the  Victoria  Cross.  Carefully  they  rehearsed  the 
programme  of  building  up  pressure  in  the  conning 
tower  by  means  of  a  pipe  connection  with  the  com 
pressed-air  flasks.  With  both  hatches  sealed  the  con 
fined  space  would  be  an  air-lock  and  the  man  en 
closed  therein  would  be  shot  toward  the  surface  in 
the  huge  bubble  or  uprush  of  air  when  the  upper 
hatch  should  be  released.  It  was  not  referred  to,  but 
they  recalled  the  fact  that  Captain  Barnard  had  at 
tempted  it  after  another  officer  had  broken  his  neck 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  57 

against  the  edge  of  the  upper  hatch  of  the  conning 
tower,  so  violently  was  he  propelled  in  the  bubble. 

The  clock  told  them  that  daylight  was  stealing 
over  the  sea.  The  men  pressed  forward  to  shake  Mor 
ton's  hand.  Their  eyes  were  wistful,  their  speech 
stammering.  He  was  about  to  make  ready  for  the 
forlorn  adventure  when  the  commander  said,  in  a 
low  voice: 

"I  apologize,  Pete.  Forget  it,  will  you?  I  have  been 
a  good  deal  of  a  brute  this  voyage." 

The  navigator  smiled  inscrutably,  but  his  frank 
features  were  illumined  with  affection  as  he  replied: 

"I  was  a  silly  nuisance,  Jim.  However,  I'll  gam 
ble  my  last  dollar  that  it's  a  wonderful  baby.  Let's 
go.  You  had  better  stand  by  to  get  things  started." 

The  boatswain's  mate,  who  was  a  man  of  muscle 
and  decision,  had  stepped  forward  in  response  to  a 
word  from  the  engineer.  They  whispered  together 
and  Morton  halted  to  say  something  as  he  passed 
them.  They  nodded,  and  the  boatswain's  mate  made 
a  singularly  cryptic  remark: 

"Sure,  I'll  lend  a  hand  to  the  mutiny  and  glad  of 
it.  I  saw  the  baby's  picture." 

Never  suspecting  a  fond  conspiracy,  Lieutenant 
Jaires  Slayback  climbed  the  ladder  to  unclamp  the 
lower  hatch  of  the  conning  tower  and  give  the  navi 
gator  his  final  instructions.  The  engineer  officer  and 
the  boatswain's  mate  were  at  hand  in  case  of  need. 
They  were  aware  that  the  commander  had  put  on  his 
kapok  vest  during  the  night  for  the  sake  of  warmth. 
The  buoy  and  the  coil  of  line  were  ready  to  be  re- 


58  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

leased.  With  infinite  caution  they  prepared  to  launch 
the  perilous  adventure.  Navigator  Peter  Morton 
clambered  into  the  conning  tower,  but  before  the 
others  could  close  the  lower  hatch  plate  and  seal  him 
inside,  he  was  seen  to  trip  and  stumble.  In  the  en 
deavor  to  save  himself  he  fell  through  the  round  open 
ing  and  collided  with  the  commander  who  stood  upon 
the  ladder. 

Lieutenant  Jim  Slayback  was  knocked  to  one  side, 
and  while  he  was  recovering  himself  and  demanding 
to  know  what  the  devil  the  matter  was,  strong  arms 
pushed  him  from  below.  He  was  powerless  to  resist 
the  tremendous  heave  with  which  he  was  hoisted  up 
the  ladder  and  jammed  into  the  conning  tower.  In 
stantly  the  round  plate  was  pulled  down  with  a  bang 
and  secured  from  beneath.  Bewildered,  using  violent 
language,  he  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  was  the 
man  who  must  try  to  go  up  in  the  bubble,  for  there 
was  no  return  to  the  interior  of  the  submarine.  He 
was  outwitted,  disobeyed,  kidnaped. 

Anxiously  and  carefully  he  opened  the  valve  which 
admitted  a  rush  of  compressed  air  from  the  storage 
flasks  below.  The  pressure  increased  in  the  conning 
tower  until  it  distressed  him,  but  he  endured  it  until 
he  felt  certain  that  the  propulsive  force  would  over 
come  the  weight  of  the  water  upon  the  upper  hatch 
plate  and  so  expel  him  as  a  projectile.  Methodically 
he  released  the  dogs  which  held  the  plate  fast  and  in  a 
swirling  chaos  of  air  and  water  he  was  borne  upward 
like  a  chip,  choking,  strangled,  bruised.  It  seemed  an 
eternity  before  he  boiled  to  the  surface  almost  insen- 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  59 

sible  in  the  foaming  eddies  of  the  bubble.  Soon  the 
tingling  chill  of  the  water  revived  him,  and  he  swam 
languidly,  no  more  than  enough  to  keep  his  head 
from  submersion.  The  daylight  seemed  glaring.  It  al 
most  blinded  him  as  he  blinked  at  an  empty  sea  upon 
which  no  shipping  was  visible.  It  was  splendid  to  be 
alive,  but  he  took  no  thought  for  himself.  Poignantly 
he  reflected  that  he  had  been  compelled  to  desert  his 
submarine,  and  that  his  loyal  comrades,  more  than 
thirty  of  them,  were  waiting  in  sublime  faith  and 
courage  for  the  rescue  which  he  alone  might  vouch 
safe  to  them.  He  was  far  better  dead  unless  they,  too, 
could  be  saved. 

The  buoy,  a  slab  of  cork  coated  with  white  paint, 
floated  a  few  yards  from  him.  He  swam  to  it  and 
tugged  at  the  slender  cord.  The  other  end  held  firm. 
It  was  fastened  to  the  hull  of  S-14.  This  was  somehow 
comforting.  He  felt  himself  to  be  in  communication 
with  his  men,  although  they  could  not  know  whether 
he  was  dead  or  alive.  Time  meant  nothing  to  him.  He 
tried  to  reckon  the  hours  by  the  sun  as  it  climbed  the 
sky,  but  his  vision  was  uncertain.  He  was  drifting 
into  a  merciful  stupor  caused  by  the  shock  of  his  ex 
pulsion  in  the  bubble. 

Two  British  destroyers,  coursing  swiftly  home 
ward,  veered  to  investigate  a  spreading  slick  of  oil 
which  a  lookout  reported  from  the  crow's-nest.  At 
closer  range  the  officers  descried  a  floating  body 
which  they  presumed  to  be  that  of  a  drowned  Ger 
man  from  a  U-boat  which  had  met  disaster.  Fortu 
nately  they  picked  him  up  before  releasing  a  few 


60  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

depth  bombs  where  the  patches  of  oil  were  most  con 
spicuous.  While  they  stripped  off  his  clothes  and 
tucked  him  in  a  bunk,  he  managed  to  murmur  some 
thing  about  an  American  submarine  and  a  Hun  that 
had  gone  to  Davy  Jones  together.  A  tumbler  of 
Scotch  whiskey  neat  jolted  Lieutenant  James  Slay- 
back  into  life  and  he  sat  up  in  the  bunk. 

"Carry  on,"  ejaculated  the  destroyer  captain,  who 
was  tanned  by  North  Sea  weather.  "You  are  an  ex 
traordinary  bit  of  wreckage,  old  chap.  What's  this 
about  S-14  all  tight  and  comfy  ten  fathoms  down? 
You  popped  up  in  the  bubble?  That  scores  one  on 
Captain  Johnny  Barnard,  eh?" 

"Find  a  diver,"  muttered  Slayback.  "We  jammed 
the  Hun  hard  and  fast." 

"Did  him  in.  How  gorgeous!  A  bit  awkward, 
though,  I  fancy.  Been  down  twelve  hours?  There  is  a 
diving  suit  and  pump  aboard,  of  course,  and  we'll 
borrow  a  human  fish  from  the  other  destroyer.  Our 
own  diver  broke  a  leg  last  trip.  Awfully  inconvenient! 
Meanwhile  we  '11  drag  with  a  wire  sweep  and  find  that 
jolly  old  submarine  of  yours.  It  will  buck  your  lads  up 
to  feel  the  sweep  bangin'  and  scrapin'  about  the  hull." 

The  American  lieutenant  dug  his  knuckles  into  his 
eyes  and  cried  like  a  tired  child.  The  British  officer 
stole  out  of  the  stateroom  and  closed  the  door.  When 
he  tiptoed  in  a  little  later,  the  commander  of  S-14 
was  deep  in  peaceful  slumber.  The  lines  which  had 
been  graven  on  his  care-worn  features  were  already 
erasing  themselves.  When  he  awoke,  the  room  was 
shadowy.  He  looked  through  a  round  port  and  saw 


TEN  FATHOMS  DOWN  61 

that  the  day  was  almost  done.  All  his  fear  and  anx 
iety  rushed  back  to  torture  him.  How  could  he  have 
slept  while  his  shipmates  were  still  imperiled?  He  was 
about  to  go  on  deck,  but  he  felt  pitiably  weak  and 
paused  to  gather  strength. 

Just  then  there  was  an  uproar  of  cheering  from 
the  lusty  throats  of  two  hundred  British  bluejackets. 
It  was  a  mighty  chorus  of  welcome  and  applause.  It 
thrilled  the  soul  of  Lieutenant  James  Slayback  with 
jubilant  vigor.  He  fairly  bolted  for  the  exit  to  the 
bridge.  Midway  between  the  two  British  destroyers, 
a  Yankee  submarine  rode  buoyant  and  unhurt  while 
her  hatches  flew  open  and  men  began  to  spill  out  as  if 
they  were  shot  from  a  gun.  They  lined  the  narrow 
strip  of  deck,  jostling  each  other,  almost  falling  over 
board,  and  they  capered  and  danced  like  so  many 
wiry  lunatics.  Upon  the  tiny  bridge  above  the  con 
ning  tower  appeared  Lieutenant  Peter  Morton  and 
young  Penfield  who  pounded  each  other  like  men 
bent  on  manslaughter.  They  caught  sight  of  their 
commander,  and  the  chubby  navigator  bellowed: 

"I  apologize,  sir.  It's  my  turn.  Mutiny  is  a  capital 
offense.  I  shall  put  myself  in  irons  at  once." 

"No  hurry,  Pete,"  the  skipper  shouted  back. 
"Everything  all  right  aboard?" 

"It  will  be  as  soon  as  we  get  a  smoke.  Penfield 
wants  to  test  out  the  motors  and  loaf  about  until  he 
can  charge  his  batteries." 

The  British  commander  appeared  amused  as  he 
said  to  Slayback:  "One  of  the  destroyers  will  stand 
by.  You  are  quite  sure  you  finished  off  the  Hun?" 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


"Quite  sure,  but  you  may  drag  him  up  if  you  like." 

"I  shall  be  delighted.  We'll  slip  a  couple  of  wires 
under  him  and  have  him  on  top  to-morrow  morning. 
Will  your  boat  proceed  to  port  for  an  overhauling 
and  to  give  the  crew  a  bit  of  a  rest?" 

"Not  if  we  can  help  it,"  replied  the  American 
sailor.  "We'll  stay  with  you  overnight  and  then  re 
sume  our  patrol." 

"Splendid,"  was  the  cordial  verdict,  and  Slayback 
was  greatly  pleased. 

S-14  was  no  longer  a  novice  at  the  grim  game  of 
stalking  the  Hun.  She  had  been  tried  and  she  had  en 
dured.  The  commander  of  this  veteran  submarine 
went  aboard  to  congratulate  his  men.  Weary,  un 
washed,  their  clothes  disreputable,  they  were  heroic 
in  the  eyes  of  Lieutenant  Slayback,  U.S.N.  He  told 
them  so,  in  few  words  and  simple.  The  boatswain's 
mate  replied  for  all  hands : 

"It's  all  in  a  lifetime.  And  there's  no  drowning  this 
outfit  with  a  skipper  like  you,  sir." 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN 

"You  wud  be  a  real,  two-fisted  gob,  Jerry,  me  boy ! " 
hoarsely  exclaimed  the  quartermaster.  "I  see  it  in 
your  eye.  I  have  watched  you  iver  since  you  come 
aboard  this  destroyer.  'T  is  dinned  in  me  ears  'til  I 
am  sick  of  it  that  th'  lads  of  the  new  Navy  all  come 
from  good  homes  an'  is  famous  for  gintlemanly  man 
ners.  What  is  a  navy  for,  annyhow?  Who  was  it  won 
all  the  great  sea-fights  an'  ructions  that  history  tells 
us  of?  Pickled  sailor-men,  hard  an'  hairy  an'  tattoed, 
same  as  me,  that  had  no  manners  whatever  an' 
was  n't  afraid  of  a  drink,  a  shindy,  or  a  frolic." 

They  were  loafing  far  aft  on  the  fan-tail  of  an 
American  destroyer  which  nosed  a  buoy  in  Queens- 
town  Harbor  with  sister  ships  sociably  nestled  on 
either  side  of  her.  Jerry  Harmstead,  ordinary  sea 
man,  was  very  young.  He  would  have  been  a  fresh 
man  in  college  if  the  war  had  not  interfered.  Tall  and 
big-boned,  he  had  not  yet  outgrown  the  awkward 
age.  His  shyness  had  been  rubbed  off  by  intimate 
contact  with  a  hundred  other  bluejackets  who  were 
jammed  together  below  decks  in  this  slim-waisted 
destroyer,  but  he  lacked  confidence  in  his  own  opin 
ions  and  was  easily  impressed.  Of  a  romantic  turn, 
young  Jerry  had  written  verses  for  his  school  maga 
zine. 

A  barnacle  of  the  old  Navy  was  Martin  Delaney, 
quartermaster,  whose  record  was  lurid  with  lapses 


64  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

which  had  thwarted  his  dreams  of  promotion.  He 
was  a  survival.  There  were  only  a  few  of  him  left.  He 
belonged  with  the  age  of  steam  frigates  spreading 
lofty  yards,  when  the  flatfoot  boasted  that  every 
finger  was  a  fish-hook  and  every  hair  a  rope-yarn. 
The  highly  educated  destroyer  officers,  who  were 
technicians,  navigators,  and  ordnance  experts,  re 
garded  him  as  a  picturesque  relic  and  treated  him 
with  tolerance.  They  wondered  why  he  had  been 
shoved  into  this  young  man's  game  and  the  answer 
seemed  to  be  that  he  was  too  tough  to  be  broken  by 
hardship. 

Guileless  Jerry  Harmstead,  who  had  to  confess 
that  he  came  from  a  good  home,  was  respectfully  at 
tentive  whenever  the  sinful  quartermaster  spun  his 
yarns  of  Valparaiso  and  Suez  and  the  China  station. 
These  were  glimpses  of  the  Navy  such  as  the  young 
ster  had  fancied  it  to  be.  It  was  flattering  to  be  sin 
gled  out  as  a  comrade  of  this  veteran  sea  dog  with 
whom  an  American  vice-admiral  had  shaken  hands 
when  he  came  aboard  to  inspect  the  destroyer. 

Leaning  over  the  taffrail  where  the  depth  bombs 
hung  like  metal  kegs,  the  quartermaster  spat  into  the 
tide  and  resumed  his  monologue. 

"An*  what  does  this  gintlemanly  crew  do  when  it 
hits  the  beach,  Jerry,  me  lad?  These  bold  sculpins 
swarm  to  a  roller-skatin'  rink  an'  steam  in  circles  'til 
their  tongues  hang  out,  or  they  set  in  th'  Sailors' 
Club  all  stiff  an'  solemn  an'  squint  at  movin'  pictures. 
Is  that  seein'  life?  Is  it  proper  recreation  for  a  tired 
destroyer-man?" 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  65 

Jerry  Harmstead  thought  it  over  and  replied  in  his 
demure,  boyish  manner: 

"Well,  Martin,  they  seem  to  like  it,  and  it  means  a 
lot  nowadays  to  keep  out  of  trouble  and  steer  clear  of 
the  booze.  This  man's  navy  shoves  a  fellow  along 
pretty  fast  if  he  shows  ambition  and  is  steady- 
gaited." 

"Be  that  as  it  may,"  croaked  Martin  Delaney, 
"an*  hurroo  for  a  grape-juice  navy  that  is  always 
pesterin'  men  about  their  moral  welfare,  but  ye  can 
not  convince  me,  Jerry,  that  a  self-respectin'  sailor 
should  come  aboard  sober  from  a  liberty  party.  'T  is 
ag'in'  th'  traditions  of  the  Service." 

Jerry  disputed  until  supper  intervened  to  suspend 
the  argument.  He  had  been  granted  permission  to 
spend  the  evening  ashore  and  expected  to  enjoy  him 
self  in  his  innocent  way  at  the  bluejackets'  club. 
When  he  landed  at  the  naval  pier  with  a  boat-load 
of  his  shipmates,  the  streets  were  gloomy  with  the 
early  darkness  of  a  sodden  sky.  It  was  Queenstown 
weather,  mist  and  drizzle,  and  mud  underfoot.  Jerry 
Harmstead  was  not  fond  of  the  town.  It  depressed  his 
spirits,  and  the  sight  of  so  many  loafing  young  Irish 
men  who  should  have  been  fighting  in  France  always 
ruffled  his  temper. 

He  was  strolling  along  with  several  of  his  friends 
from  the  destroyer  when  Martin  Delaney  overtook 
them  and  linked  his  arm  in  Jerry's.  These  two 
dropped  behind,  for  the  pavement  was  narrow,  and 
the  quartermaster  exclaimed  in  that  husky,  deep-sea 
voiqe  of  his: 


66  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"What  with  a  lad  from  the  Navy  patrol  at  ivery 
corner  an'  a  billy  in  his  fist,  there  is  small  chance  for 
diversion.  They  will  smother  a  good  man  before  he 
can  start  annything.  Niver  ye  mind,  Jerry.  Stick  by 
me.  'T  is  an  invitation.  We  will  be  seein'  life." 

"Better  blow  into  the  club  with  me,"  advised  the 
ordinary  seaman.  "It's  the  night  for  the  band  from 
the  flagship.  And  I  '11  set  up  the  pie  and  ice  cream  and 
we  can  have  a  game  of  checkers." 

The  quartermaster  halted  with  his  hands  on  his 
hips  and  laughed  good-humoredly.  Jerry  flushed  and 
felt  excessively  young  and  callow.  With  the  air  of 
one  imparting  words  of  precious  wisdom,  old  Martin 
Delaney  replied: 

"The  real  gobs  pass  it  up.  Nix  on  the  club  stuff. 
Ice  cream  an'  checkers,  an'  a  bum  brass-band  of 
amachoor  wind-jammers!  You're  me  personal  guest 
for  to-night,  boy.  A  little  back  room  an'  three  or  four 
of  my  pals,  petty  officers  that  grew  up  in  this  man's 
navy." 

To  the  ingenuous  Jerry  there  was  magic  in  the 
phrase,  "a  real  gob."  Destroyer  service  in  the  war 
zone  was  adventurous  enough,  but  most  of  his  friends 
were  boys  like  himself  who  had  enlisted  from  the 
college  or  the  farm  or  the  shop.  Pleased  that  De 
laney  should  care  to  admit  him  to  the  fraternity  of 
the  little  back  room,  he  accepted  the  invitation. 
Presently  they  turned  into  a  narrow,  very  dirty  alley 
whose  rutted  flagging  climbed  the  hillside  at  crazy 
angles.  The  quartermaster  entered  a  public  house 
and  heartily  greeted  the  young  woman  behind  the 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  67 

bar.  She  was  a  slatternly,  red-faced  creature,  and 
Jerry  felt  sorry  for  her. 

The  small  room  beyond  was  more  cheerful,  with  a 
coal  fire  blazing  in  the  grate  in  front  of  which  sat  a 
machinist's  mate  and  a  coxswain  of  the  American 
Navy,  men  somewhat  younger  than  Martin  Delaney, 
but  wearing  the  "hash  bars"  of  several  enlistments. 
They  shook  hands  with  Jerry  Harmstead  and 
promptly  shouted  for  drinks.  He  decided  to  try  a 
bottle  of  stout.  This  appeared  to  be  the  quartermas 
ter's  favorite  tipple  and  he  recommended  it  as  sooth 
ing  and  nutritious.  Jerry  sipped  his  glass  and  listened 
while  they  yarned  of  this  ship  or  that  cruise.  It  was 
very  interesting,  but  the  room  had  a  musty  flavor 
and  reeked  of  stale  beer.  The  seasoned  sailor-men 
puffed  at  cigars  that  were  strong  and  bad,  and  Jerry 
beheld  them  through  a  fog  of  smoke  which  made  him 
cough. 

It  was  the  foul  air,  no  doubt,  which  caused  his  head 
to  buzz,  so  when  the  blowzy  barmaid  answered  the 
next  summons,  he  took  another  bottle  of  stout  to 
steady  him.  It  might  be  a  nutritious  beverage  and 
likewise  mild  in  the  sight  of  Martin  Delaney,  but 
Jerry's  eyes  began  to  shine  and  he  lost  his  diffidence. 
He  talked  easily.  The  sound  of  his  own  voice  charmed 
him.  As  a  chaperon  the  quartermaster  exclaimed, 
with  a  touch  of  pride: 

"Loosenin'  up  a  bit,  Jerry,  me  boy?  'T  is  the  socia 
bility  of  it.  Ye  will  sing  us  a  song  after  we  drink  an 
other  round  of  th'  same." 

Jerry  was  glad  to  oblige.  When  he  stood  up  the 


68  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

room  seemed  to  sway  and  dip  a  trifle,  but  you  often 
had  that  feeling  ashore  after  a  week's  trip  on  convoy 
duty  in  a  bucking  destroyer.  Glass  in  hand,  he  rolled 
out  a  verse  of  the  flotilla  song,  astonished  to  find  that 
he  had  a  really  splendid  baritone  voice: 

"Talk  about  your  battleships,  cruisers,  scouts,  and  all; 
Talk  about  your  Fritzers  who  are  aiming  for  a  fall; 
Talk  about  your  Coast  Guard,  it's  brave  they  have  to  be, 
But  old  Bill  Sims'  Flotilla  is  the  terror  of  the  sea." 

Delaney  pounded  the  table,  and  the  coxswain 
swore  they  ought  to  make  a  quartet  of  it  and  tear  off 
some  close  harmony.  This  was  the  life,  loudly  de 
clared  Jerry,  who  had  a  corking  story  to  tell  about 
his  winning  touch-down  on  the  high-school  football 
team,  but  there  was  a  girl  mixed  in  it  —  she  was  a 
pippin  —  a  wonder  —  and  he  had  kissed  her  good 
bye  when  he  enlisted,  and  since  then  she  had  written 
him  that  she  liked  another  fellow  better  —  and  Jer 
ry's  voice  broke,  for  he  was  deeply  affected,  and  the 
story  wandered  until  it  ended  in  another  bottle  of 
stout. 

The  audience  seemed  to  lack  sympathy.  The  ma 
chinist's  mate  grinned  and  insisted  upon  spinning  a 
long  narrative  which  involved  the  police  of  Honolulu. 
Jerry  was  in  a  sensitive  mood.  As  a  guest  he  could  not 
pick  a  quarrel,  so  he  drifted  out  to  the  bar  to  confide 
in  the  ripened  damsel  who  pulled  the  taps.  Earlier  in 
the  evening  he  had  thought  her  fat,  shabby,  and  for 
lorn.  Now  he  perceived  that  she  was  kind-hearted, 
even  charming.  His  gaze  wavered  oddly,  but  he  man 
aged  to  keep  her  in  focus  as  he  murmured: 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  69 

"Irish  eyes  of  blue!  And  a  cheek  like  the  dawn  of 
day,  my  dear.  Tell  me  something.  Are  you  a  Sinn- 
Feiner?" 

Her  smile  was  jolly  and  honest  as  she  answered: 

"Shure,  you  have  no  lack  of  cheek  yourself!  Away 
wid  your  blarney.  An'  wud  I  be  a  Sinn-Feiner  —  me 
that  has  one  brother  in  the  Irish  Guards  an'  another 
wan  dead  in  Flanders?  Go  back  to  your  ship,  that's 
the  good  boy.  You  are  stout  enough  an'  have  no  need 
for  it  in  bottles." 

"Thanks,  Molly  darling,  but  I  am  seeing  life," 
Jerry  assured  her,  with  a  great  deal  of  feeling.  "Be 
hold  a  real  gob,  and  the  night  is  still  young.  Trip  into 
the  back  room  and  take  the  orders,  if  you  please.  The 
machinist's  mate  insulted  me,  but  I  can't  refuse  him 
a  drink.  Did  you  notice  his  ugly  mug?  I  think  he's  a 
Sinn-Feiner." 

A  roar4  from  the  thirsty  back  room  called  Molly 
darling  in  haste.  Jerry  Harmstead,  ordinary  seaman, 
considered  himself  scorned  and  neglected  by  all 
hands.  Even  those  Irish  eyes  of  blue  shone  not  for 
him.  A  tear  trickled  down  his  nose  and  he  became 
embittered.  The  real  gobs  had  no  more  use  for  him. 
They  had  laughed  at  his  broken  heart.  He  did  not 
wish  to  see  them  again.  He  wandered  outside,  the  flat 
cap  jammed  low  on  his  brow,  and  stood  frowning  at 
the  alley,  which  was  dark  and  wet.  The  easiest  direc 
tion  to  steer  was  downhill,  and  he  moved  at  what  is 
known  as  a  rolling  gait  in  the  direction  of  the  water 
front. 

Sadly  he  came  to  the  irregular  open  square  or  mar- 


70  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

ket-place,  passing  a  Navy  patrol  who  eyed  him  at 
tentively  and  observed  that  he  was  making  fairly 
good  weather  of  it.  A  crowd  was  gathering  and  the 
street  lights  made  a  shadowy  illumination.  Jerry 
Harmstead  advanced  and  halted,  blinking  at  the 
spectacle.  A  hundred  Irishmen  were  jostling  into 
parade  formation  while  an  orator  declaimed  from  the 
curb.  The  embers  of  a  bonfire  glowed  in  the  square.  A 
banner  of  some  sort  was  carried  at  the  head  of  the 
column.  There  seemed  to  be  a  guard  or  escort  of 
young  men  who  wore  green  uniforms.  They  fell  in 
smartly  and  showed  the  results  of  drill. 

To  Jerry  Harmstead's  listening  ear  came  the  ora 
tor's  final  appeal.  There  was  something  about  brutal 
jailers  and  a  hunger  strike  and  the  Dublin  martyrs 
and  their  righteous  cause  —  at  which  the  crowd 
cheered  for  the  martyrs  and  groaned  at  mention  of 
the  British  despotism  that  held  Ireland  in  chains. 
Now  the  right  and  wrong  of  the  Irish  question  was 
too  deep  for  Jerry  Harmstead,  ordinary  seaman  of  a 
destroyer's  crew,  but  he  had  heard  his  own  flag 
cursed  by  men  who  hoped  Germany  would  win  the 
war.  He  had  been  nursing  a  grudge  against  all  Sinn- 
Feiners,  and  here  they  were,  flaunting  their  banner, 
led  by  their  own  soldiers.  Jerry  was  fighting  hand  in 
hand  with  the  British  Navy  and  he  took  the  alliance 
seriously. 

The  Dublin  martyrs  might  fire  the  hearts  of  these 
Queenstown  rebels,  but  several  bottles  of  Dublin 
stout  were  seething  beneath  the  blouse  of  a  lone 
American  bluejacket.  Earnestly  he  said  to  himself: 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  71 

"Josephus  Daniels  and  Vice-Admiral  'Bill'  Sims 
expect  every  man  to  do  his  duty.  That's  a  hostile 
dem-demonstration,  sure  as  you  live.  Right  here  is 
where  I  bust  it  up." 

The  odds  were  somewhat  disturbing,  but  a  "real 
gob  "  never  hesitated  for  a  little  thing  like  that.  The 
mood  of  Jerry  was  grandly  heroic.  With  a  whoop 
of  defiance  he  galloped  into  the  square  and  made 
straight  for  that  irritating  green  banner.  Things 
happened  immediately  thereafter.  There  were  one 
hundred  and  eighty  pounds  of  Jerry,  and  although 
clumsy  he  was  not  soft.  And  an  Irish  riot  was  very 
much  like  plunging  through  an  opposing  football 
team  with  five  yards  to  gain.  The  banner  went  down 
and  Jerry  clutched  the  splintered  pole.  He  swung  it 
ardently.  His  object  was  twofold,  to  break  up  the 
parade  and  to  crack  the  head  of  the  orator  who  had 
tactlessly  referred  to  the  American  sailors  as  vultures 
and  vampires.  Jerry  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  succeed. 
He  bowled  the  orator  off  his  pins,  mowed  a  swath 
among  the  green  uniforms,  and  converted  the  parade 
into  a  ruction.  His  arrival  was  as  abrupt  as  that  of  an 
explosive  shell  and  the  enemy  were  taken  utterly  by 
surprise.  They  soon  rallied,  however,  and  the  tide 
turned  against  Jerry.  Something  hard  hit  him  behind 
the  ear  and  he  dropped.  Scrambling  to  his  feet,  he 
butted  a  portly  Sinn-Feiner  in  the  stomach  and  tried 
to  get  room  to  use  his  fists. 

The  disturbance  naturally  attracted  attention.  The 
peaceful  night  was  shattered  by  the  war-cries  of 
Jerry  and  the  curses  of  the  annoyed  Irish  celebrants. 


72  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

The  American  Navy  patrols  mobilized  at  the  double- 
quick,  but  an  awkward  problem  confronted  them. 
They  desired  to  extricate  the  obstreperous  bluejacket 
and  put  him  under  arrest,  but  they  had  received 
strict  orders  not  to  molest  the  town's-people.  How  to 
pluck  Jerry  out  of  the  scrimmage  without  hurting  a 
few  Sinn-Feiners  was  a  puzzle.  It  was  a  job  for  the 
Royal  Irish  Constabulary.  These  officers  of  the  law 
were  a  bit  tardy,  but  presently  a  sergeant  and  six 
men  came  down  the  hill  from  the  barracks  and  paused 
to  discover  what  it  was  all  about. 

Just  then  there  bolted  from  a  dingy  pub  in  an  alley 
near  by  three  seasoned  petty  officers,  and  Martin  De- 
laney,  quartermaster,  led  the  charge.  The  word  had 
been  passed  to  the  little  back  room  that  one  Ameri 
can  bluejacket  was  putting  up  a  gorgeous  scrap  down 
in  the  square.  It  was  an  S.O.S.  call,  as  Delaney  read 
it,  and  the  coxswain  and  the  machinist's  mate  in 
stantly  agreed  with  him.  They  surged  past  the  Royal 
Constabulary  and  joyously  ploughed  into  the  mob. 
Queenstown  was  a  regular  town  after  all.  At  last  it 
was  worth  a  man's  time  to  hit  the  beach. 

These  were  old  hands  at  the  game  of  knock-down- 
and-drag-out.  Even  an  Irish  mob  had  to  regard  them 
with  respect.  In  their  salad  days  they  had  mopped 
up  notorious  joints  from  the  Bowery  to  the  Ratcliffe 
Road.  Occupied  as  he  was  in  leading  with  left  and 
right,  Martin  Delaney  was  able  to  recognize  in  the 
solitary  champion  none  other  than  his  youthful 
protege,  Jerry  Harmstead.  It  was  with  fatherly  pride 
that  the  quartermaster  bellowed: 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  73 

" Carry  on,  me  boy!  You  are  seem'  life.  A  real  gob ! 
What  did  I  tell  ye?" 

Alas,  the  entertainment  was  snuffed  out  by  the 
concerted  action  of  the  Royal  Constabulary  and  the 
American  Navy  patrol.  They  moved  in  force  and 
sorted  the  combatants,  bluejacket  and  Sinn-Feiner. 
Jerry  Harmstead  was  led  out  by  the  collar,  the  wreck 
of  a  trim  young  seaman  of  the  flotilla.  He  was  sobered 
and  downcast,  already  of  the  opinion  that  the  man 
ners  and  habits  of  the  new  Navy  had  much  to  be  said 
in  their  favor.  Martin  Delaney  and  the  other  two 
armored  cruisers  took  it  as  philosophers  and  were  un 
perturbed.  If  they  were  to  be  punished  for  sailing  in 
to  help  a  shipmate  in  distress,  then  so  much  the  worse 
for  the  regulations. 

Instead  of  being  escorted  aboard  ship  they  were 
locked  up  in  a  warehouse  which  was  used  as  a  tem 
porary  brig.  Jerry  was  too  good  a  sportsman  to  blame 
his  companions  for  his  misfortune,  but  he  bitterly 
regretted  straying  from  the  paths  of  virtue.  They 
tried  to  console  him,  but  their  accents  were  drowsy, 
and  all  three  were  soon  snoring,  their  slumber  as 
sweet  and  untroubled  as  that  of  innocent  children. 
Jerry  sat  and  rubbed  his  bruises  or  held  his  aching 
head  until  he,  too,  slept  the  sleep  of  weariness. 

Early  next  morning  a  master-at-arms  gruffly 
roused  them  and  sent  them  off  to  their  respective 
destroyers  with  an  armed  guard.  This  was  an  open 
disgrace  which  made  Jerry  Harmstead  hang  his  head 
with  shame.  Even  the  destroyer's  fox  terrier  barked 
at  him  in  a  hostile  manner.  The  men  of  his  own  divi- 


74  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

sion  could  have  been  no  more  surprised  if  the  fleet 
chaplain  had  been  clapped  in  irons.  Jerry,  the  model 
of  behavior,  had  toppled  with  a  crash.  He  looked  it. 
There  was  no  alibi  for  him.  The  watch  officer  ordered 
him  below  to  clean  up  and  shift  his  tattered  uniform. 
He  would  be  confined  until  the  commander  held 
mast  and  decided  whether  or  not  he  was  to  be  sent 
aboard  the  flagship  for  court-martial.  Breakfast  held 
no  charm  for  Jerry.  He  had  never  supposed  that  a 
man  could  be  so  profoundly  unhappy  in  mind,  soul, 
and  body. 

When  he  was  marched  forward  for  judgment,  the 
skipper  of  the  destroyer  did  not  appear  as  ferocious 
as  the  culprit  had  feared.  He  was  an  impetuous  offi 
cer  with  a  square  jaw  and  a  twinkling  eye  and  his 
crew  thought  the  world  of  him.  There  were  two  Ger 
man  submarines  to  his  credit,  one  of  which  he  had 
rammed  and  cut  in  two.  He  paced  the  deck,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  while  the  actors  in  the  lawless 
episode  were  lined  up  in  a  row.  The  men  of  the  Navy 
patrol  recited  their  testimony,  identifying  Jerry 
Harmstead  and  giving  it  as  their  opinion  that  he  had 
been  drinking. 

"He  was  creating  a  disturbance,  fighting,  and  all 
that?"  queried  the  commander. 

"A  disturbance,  sir?"  responded  the  Navy  wit 
ness,  who  was  redheaded  and  Irish.  "He  was  a  knock 
out!  If  he  put  the  fear  o9  God  into  one  of  them  damn 
Sinn-Feiners  he  did  it  to  a  dozen  of  'em,  sir.  Too  bad 
you  missed  such  an  illigant  — " 

"Here,  enough  of  that,"  was  the  stern  interrup- 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  75 

tion.  "This  is  a  serious  offense.  You  men  have  been 
given  special  instructions  to  avoid  friction  with  the 
people  of  Queenstown.  You  are  forbidden  to  meddle 
in  their  affairs.  I  like  the  Sinn-Fein  no  more  than  you 
do,  but  dislike  is  not  an  excuse  for  assault  and  bat 
tery.  Such  an  affair  as  this  mars  the  fine  record  of  the 
American  Navy  in  Ireland.  What  have  you  to  say 
for  yourself,  Har instead?" 

Jerry  hung  his  head  and  nervously  rubbed  the 
painful  lump  behind  his  ear. 

"Nothing  much,  sir,"  he  answered,  looking  up  to 
meet  the  commander's  searching  glance  in  which 
there  was  a  gleam  of  friendliness.  "I  never  took  a 
drink  before  in  my  life,  and  I  guess  it  went  to  my 
head.  I  got  sorrowful  and  then  mad,  I  remember,  and 
the  sight  of  those  Sinn-Feiners  touched  me  off.  I 
blew  up,  sir." 

"Um-m,  the  first  mark  against  your  record.  Too 
bad,"  said  the  commander,  glancing  at  a  paper 
handed  him  by  a  yeoman.  "I  can't  overlook  it." 

"If  you  please,  sorr,"  came  the  hoarse  accents  of 
Martin  Delaney  as  he  stepped  forward  and  saluted, 
"this  boy  is  a  good  guy.  It  was  my  fault  entirely,  an' 
I  always  take  me  medicine,  as  you  know,  sorr.  He  was 
on  the  proper  course  for  the  Sailors'  Club  at  standard 
speed  when  I  enticed  him  to  come  along  wid  me. 
Bein'  a  man  so  much  older  than  him,  he  thought  it 
disrespectful  to  refuse.  An'  it  was  me  that  coaxed  th' 
booze  into  the  lad,  tho'  God  knows  I  niver  suspected 
that  three  or  four  or  six  bottles  of  stout  'ud  twist  his 
compass  bearings  as  bad  as  all  that.  'T  was  no  more 


76  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

than  enough  to  give  me  a  thirst,  sorr.  If  ye  will  tack 
his  sentence  onto  mine  I  will  serve  the  both  of  thim 
with  pleasure." 

"I  wanted  to  be  a  real  gob,"  faltered  Jerry,  with  a 
ghost  of  a  smile. 

"Are  you  cured  of  that  ambition?"  asked  the 
commander. 

"Goodness  gracious,  yes,  sir.  It  does  n't  agree  with 
me  at  all." 

"I  believe  you.  The  quartermaster  shows  a  manly 
spirit,  but  it  cannot  extenuate  you,  Harmstead.  You 
have  to  stand  on  your  own  two  feet  in  the  Navy. 
Your  liberty  will  probably  be  stopped  for  thirty  days 
and  ten  dollars  deducted  from  your  pay  by  a  deck 
court.  This  is  not  a  final  verdict.  It  is  subject  to  re 
vision  aboard  the  flagship  in  the  event  of  a  complaint 
from  the  civil  authorities  of  Queenstown.  This  ship 
goes  to  sea  this  afternoon  and  your  division  is  short- 
handed.  So  I  shall  take  you  along  and  deliver  you,  if 
so  ordered,  when  we  return  to  port." 

The  verdict  was  surprisingly  lenient,  but  Jerry  re 
garded  it  as  a  suspended  sentence,  with  the  worst  to 
come.  Dejectedly  he  moved  aft  while  the  commander 
scowled  at  Martin  Delaney  and  said: 

"The  same  for  you.  I  presume  you  know  what  to 
expect." 

"Yes,  sorr.  Thirty  an'  ten.  I  have  heard  thim  sad 
words  before.  Thank  you  kindly,  an'  't  is  me  determi 
nation  to  eat  checkers  an'  play  ice  cream  at  the  club 
foriver  hereafter.  I  am  not  the  man  I  was  an'  me 
main-top  is  full'of  bats  this  mornin'." 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  77 

The  commander  dismissed  him  and  went  into  the 
ward-room  to  think  of  this  pair  of  offenders  less 
harshly  than  if  they  had  tried  to  evade  the  truth  and 
the  consequences.  Jerry  Harmstead  cleaned  brass- 
work  and  paint  until  noon,  but  was  not  as  active  as 
usual.  His  friends  endeavored  to  cheer  him,  but  he 
could  not  be  comforted.  They  seemed  to  consider  him 
a  hero  instead  of  a  criminal,  and  agreed  that  when  it 
came  to  showing  the  Sinn-Feiners  where  they  got  off, 
Jerry  was  a  human  depth  bomb.  There  was  talk  of 
matching  him  for  a  ten-round  bout  against  the  heavy 
weight  champion  of  a  British  cruiser  then  in  port.  In 
a  bad  temper  Jerry  declined  the  honor  and  asked 
them  to  let  him  alone. 

All  he  could  see  and  think  of  was  that  his  ambition 
of  being  rated  as  a  petty  officer  had  been  blighted 
and  his  record  was  no  longer  clean  and  satisfactory. 
Worse  than  this  was  the  suspense  and  uncertainty 
which  hung  over  him  like  a  black  cloud.  A  general 
court-martial  might  send  him  home  to  serve  a  term 
in  a  naval  prison.  Jerry  suffered  so  because  he  was 
only  seventeen.  Life  had  been  a  lark.  It  was  now 
somber,  tragic,  and  intense. 

The  destroyer  slipped  out  to  sea  late  in  the  after 
noon,  running  alone  instead  of  with  a  division  on  con 
voy  duty.  A  rumor  filtered  from  the  ward-room  that 
she  was  bound  on  some  special  service  —  "hush 
stuff"  -and  might  make  for  one  of  the  Channel 
ports.  The  wind  was  blowing  half  a  gale  as  she  passed 
through  the  gate  of  the  netted  barrier  that  protected 
the  harbor  and  poked  a  sharp  nose  into  the  seas 


78  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

which  frothed  outside  the  headlands.  It  was  to  the 
credit  of  the  flotilla  that  not  a  ship  had  delayed  or 
run  for  shelter  because  of  bad  weather  during  the 
months  of  stormy  service  in  the  war  zone.  The  de 
stroyers  went  about  their  business  and  the  crew  hung 
on  by  the  eyelids. 

The  night  was  impenetrably  black,  and  the  vessel, 
which  was  seemingly  so  fragile  and  yet  so  immensely 
tenacious,  drove  into  it  showing  never  a  glimmer  of 
light.  Other  ships  might  be  near,  and  they  were  also 
shrouded,  but  the  continual  risk  of  collision  was  part 
of  the  desperate  game  they  played.  The  destroyer 
did  not  ride  the  huge  seas  which  rose  as  the  wind  in 
creased,  but  sheared  through  them.  Her  hatches  were 
securely  fastened.  She  was  sealed  like  a  bottle.  Speed 
was  reduced  to  twelve  knots,  but  the  thundering  im 
pact  of  the  seas  shook  the  hull  in  a  succession  of  jar 
ring  and  tremulous  vibrations.  The  crew  felt  no  alarm, 
merely  a  wretched  discomfort,  but  this  had  become 
habitual  and  they  took  it  for  granted. 

Jerry  Harmstead  turned  out  at  midnight  to  stand 
a  four-hour  watch.  He  wore  a  life-belt,  of  course,  and 
was  scrambling  into  his  boots  and  slicker  while  the 
boatswain's  mate  was  still  exhorting  the  others  to 
show  a  leg.  It  was  impossible  to  live  on  the  open  deck 
or  to  remain  at  the  gun  stations.  During  such  a  wild 
night  as  this  the  men  of  the  watch  clawed  their  way 
forward  to  the  lee  of  the  superstructure  and  crowded 
into  the  alley  leading  to  the  ward-room  or  clung  to  the 
stairs  beneath  the  bridge. 

Climbing  out  of  the  after  hatch,  which  was  some- 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  79 

what  sheltered,  Jerry  cautiously  groped  along,  hang 
ing  fast  to  whatever  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  while 
the  flying  water  drenched  him  and  the  wind  choked 
his  breath.  He  felt  safer  when  he  gripped  the  life-line 
rigged  across  the  open  space  between  the  funnels  and 
the  quarters  forward.  Hand  over  fist  he  laboriously 
advanced,  unable  to  see,  but  sensing  by  the  feel  of  the 
vessel  when  a  big  sea  was  about  to  tumble  aboard. 
He  had  almost  traversed  the  distance  when  the  buf 
feted  destroyer,  steaming  dead  into  it,  yawed  like  a 
runaway  horse  and  took  a  mighty  comber  over  the 
starboard  side.  She  rolled  far  down  as  if  unable  to 
right  herself,  gallantly  recovered,  and  swung  again 
into  the  teeth  of  the  storm. 

The  roaring  flood  plucked  Jerry  Harmstead  from 
the  life-line.  It  was  like  shaking  an  apple  from  a  twig. 
He  was  washed  off  into  the  clamorous  darkness  with 
out  touching  the  deck.  If  he  cried  out,  nobody  heard 
him.  He  was  not  even  missed  until  the  other  men  of 
the  watch  had  gained  shelter.  Nothing  could  be  done 
to  search  for  or  save  him.  All  they  could  do  was  to 
mourn  him  and  feel  sorry  for  the  folks  at  home.  It 
would  be  hard  breaking  the  news  to  old  Martin  De- 
laney  when  he  turned  out  of  his  bunk. 

Meanwhile  the  unfortunate  Jerry  was  fighting  for 
survival  in  the  midst  of  a  black  and  furious  ocean. 
His  cork  jacket  was  so  buoyant  that  there  was  no 
danger  of  sinking.  In  this  season  of  early  autumn  the 
water  was  not  chill  enough  to  benumb  him  for  some 
time.  He  was  splendidly  vigorous  and  not  at  all  re 
signed  to  the  notion  of  drowning.  It  was  a  question 


80  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

of  remaining  alive  until  daylight,  which  might  bring 
the  hope  of  salvation.  The  toppling  seas  and  the  gusts 
of  spray  were  trying  to  suffocate  him,  but  he  held  his 
breath  or  gulped  for  air  and  was  cruelly  battered  but 
not  overwhelmed.  Without  doubt  he  was  seeing  life, 
and  the  words  absurdly  reechoed  in  his  mind. 

Long  before  the  merciful  dawn  began  to  break,  the 
castaway  was  in  a  stupor  of  exhaustion  and  his  blood 
was  congealed  with  cold,  but  the  desire  of  life  had  not 
been  quenched,  and  the  feeble,  intermittent  motion 
of  his  arms  and  legs,  a  subconscious  instinct,  enabled 
him  to  avoid  submersion.  The  wind  had  diminished 
and  the  sea,  although  vastly  swollen,  was  no  longer 
confused  and  broken.  Jerry  swayed  upon  the  hills  of 
green  water  or  slid  down  into  the  yeasty  hollows  as 
though  he  were  riding  a  toboggan. 

It  was  a  British  trawler  that  sighted  him  and  al 
most  passed  him  by  as  a  dead  seaman  from  some 
torpedoed  merchant  ship.  Jerry  drifted  so  close 
alongside,  however,  that  the  signs  of  life  were  unmis 
takable.  At  any  rate,  he  looked  bloomin'  fresh  for  a 
corpse,  in  the  opinion  of  the  trawler  skipper,  and  it 
was  worth  while  trying  to  lower  a  boat  even  if  it  got 
stove  up.  At  the  first  attempt  the  yawl  was  swamped, 
whereupon  the  skipper  kicked  off  his  boots  and  dived 
from  the  rail,  the  end  of  a  coil  of  line  between  his  teeth. 
He  slid  a  bight  under  Jerry's  arms  and  they  were 
hauled  aboard  together  with  the  aid  of  the  winch. 

The  trawler-men  rolled  the  water  out  of  the  dere 
lict  bluejacket,  tucked  him  in  a  bunk,  and  proceeded 
to  discuss  him  with  lively  interest. 


JERRY  DRIFTED  SO  CLOSE  ALONGSIDE,  HOWEVER,  THAT  THE  SIGNS 
OF  LIFE  WERE  UNMISTAKABLE 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  81 

"A  Yank  an'  a  good  'un,"  said  the  mate.  "It's 
'ands  across  the  sea,  what?  He's  lost  'is  cap,  so  we 
can't  get  the  name  of  the  ship  he  was  washed 
from." 

"Trust  him  to  be  settin'  up  all  merry  an'  bright 
before  noon,"  observed  the  skipper.  "Maybe  he  over 
stayed  leave  in  one  o'  the  American  ports  an'  his  ship 
sailed  without  him,  so  he  swam  across.  I  can't  put 
him  ashore  from  this  perishin'  trawler  an'  he  '11  have 
to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"A  braw  lad  an'  he'll  nae  refuse  to  bear  a  hand," 
put  in  the  engineer,  who  hailed  from  Aberdeen. 
"Didna  we  lose  a  man  oursel'  when  the  Hun  mine 
went  bang  an'  a  whizzin'  bit  of  it  slit  poor  Johnny 
Crisp's  craw  for  him?" 

When  the  braw  lad  opened  his  eyes  and  became 
dreamily  conscious  of  his  surroundings,  the  little 
cabin  was  wholly  unfamiliar,  and  smelled  so  strongly 
of  fish  that  he  fancied  he  might  be  in  that  haven  for 
the  souls  of  sailor-men  that  is  known  as  Davy  Jones's 
locker.  The  sea  was  washing  green  against  the  bull's- 
eye  window  and  the  tramp  of  boots  resounded  over 
head.  The  pulsations  of  the  engine  and  the  steady 
thump-thump  of  a  crank  shaft  convinced  Jerry 
Harmstead  that  he  was  not  yet  disembodied.  An 
other  proof  of  this  was  the  fact  that  he  felt  stupen 
dously  hungry.  He  could  have  eaten  those  sea-boots, 
soles  and  all.  There  was  in  his  memory  a  rather 
blurred  picture  of  a  night  adrift  in  a  cork  jacket.  It 
was  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  he  realized  he  was 
no  longer  aboard  the  destroyer.  For  the  present,  at 


82  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

least,  the  fear  of  a  general  court-martial  and  prison 
was  removed. 

The  trawler  skipper  halted  in  the  doorway.  His 
broad  shoulders  filled  it.  His  seamed  face  was  dec 
orated  with  a  fringe  of  gray  whiskers  which  left 
the  chin  smooth-shaven.  To  Jerry  he  suggested  a 
fatherly  deacon  who  had  passed  his  life  on  a  New 
England  farm.  He  wore  the  blue  uniform  of  the 
Trawler  Naval  Reserve,  and  the  double-breasted 
coat  was  buttoned  across  a  chest  that  was  as  thick 
as  a  barrel.  Swaying  easily  to  meet  the  motion  of  the 
vessel,  he  sang  out: 

"Ahoy,  Yank!  What  about  tea  and  toast  and  a 
plate  of  kippered  herrin'?  In  a  manner  of  speakin' 
we  fetched  you  back  from  a  watery  grave." 

"I'm  a  thousand  times  obliged  to  you,"  weakly 
replied  Jerry.  "May  I  ask  where  I  am  and  who  you 
are?" 

"Skipper  Thomas  Rawson,  at  your  service,"  re 
turned  the  mariner,  ducking  his  head  in  what  was 
meant  for  a  bow.  "Trawler  Rose  of  Old  England 
out  o'  Lowestoft,  but  now  attached  to  the  seventh 
Division  of  mine-sweepers  with  the  Channel  Patrol. 
We  got  blowed  out  to  sea  last  night  while  answerin' 
a  call  from  a  steamer  that  was  chased  by  a  submarine." 

"How  soon  will  you  be  going  into  port?"  was 
Jerry's  anxious  query. 

"We  came  out  only  yesterday  mornin',  an'  it 
means  a  week's  trip,  sweepin'  a  stretch  of  war  chan 
nel  all  day  an'  lyin'  at  anchor  by  night.  I  '11  show  it 
to  you  on  the  chart  when  you  buck  up  a  bit," 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  83 

Jerry  meditated  and  ventured  to  remark: 

"I  can't  ask  you  to  run  in  just  to  set  me  ashore, 
Skipper.  You  have  to  get  on  with  the  war.  I  wonder 
if  I'll  be  logged  as  a  deserter?" 

"Bless  your  eyes,  you're  logged  as  dead  an' 
missin',"  chuckled  Thomas  Rawson.  "When  you 
do  turn  up  it'll  be  as  a  bleedin'  ghost.  You're  wel 
come  to  share  an'  share  alike  with  us,  an'  if  I  sight 
anything  bound  to  Queenstown  I'll  signal  'em  to 
take  you  aboard.  I  take  it  you  're  off  a  destroyer." 

"Yes,  sir;  I  went  off  last  night,  without  per 
mission,"  smiled  Jerry. 

For  sixteen  hours  on  end  he  slept  in  the  bunk, 
waking  several  times  to  eat  the  rough  and  plenteous 
fare  which  the  skipper  or  the  cook  carried  in  to  him. 
Then  he  got  into  his  clothes  and  went  on  deck.  The 
mate  beckoned  him  into  the  wheel-house,  where  he 
leaned  against  the  ledge  of  an  open  window  and 
gazed  with  curious  interest  at  the  little  trawler  and 
her  consorts  which  were  slowly  moving  in  fleet  for 
mation.  There  were  six  of  them,  arranged  in  pairs.  The 
Rose  of  Old  England  dragged  a  wire  cable  from  a 
heavy  framework  at  her  stern,  while  her  companion 
trawler,  several  hundred  feet  distant,  trailed  the 
other  end  of  the  sweep- wire.  It  sagged  beneath  the 
surface  of  the  sea  in  a  huge  loop. 

"Have  you  had  any  luck  to-day?"  Jerry  asked 
the  stalwart  mate. 

"Not  to-day.  I  have  'opes.  'T  is  about  time  for 
the  dirty  old  Fritz  to  come  a-creepin'  over  to  lay 
'is  eggs  in  this  bit  of  channel.  Right  about  'ere  a  traw- 


84  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

ler  bumped  one  last  week  an'  went  up  with  all  hands. 
Fair  blown  to  kindlin'  she  was.  My  sister's  man  was 
skipper  of  her." 

"This  is  the  life,"  murmured  Jerry  and  just  then 
the  stanch  Rose  of  Old  England  rocked  and  quivered 
as  though  in  the  throes  of  an  earthquake.  Midway 
between  the  pair  of  trawlers  off  to  port  the  water 
spouted  black  and  muddy  in  a  column  two  hundred 
feet  high  and  the  roar  of  the  detonation  was  like  a 
thunder-clap.  The  mate  shaded  his  eyes  with  his 
hand  and  stared  as  he  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
voice : 

"There's  one  of  'em.  The  sweep-wire  must  ha' 
struck  a  horn  of  the  beast.  It  saves  the  trouble  of 
sinkin'  it.  No  'arm  done." 

"Some  sporty  game,"  was  Jerry's  verdict  as  he 
tried  to  appear  as  unperturbed  as  the  trawler  crew. 
"I  won't  feel  bored  or  homesick  if  I  have  to  stay  out 
here  a  week  or  so." 

"It's  interestin'  at  times,"  agreed  the  mate. 

Presently  the  sweep-wire  tightened  and  tugged 
as  a  line  rips  through  the  water  when  a  big  fish  is 
hooked.  Skipper  Thomas  Rawson  shouted  to  the 
engineer  to  slacken  speed  and  bawled  across  to 
the  companion  trawler  to  hold  steady  and  not  drop 
astern. 

"Unless  we  keep  fair  abreast  when  we  grip  a 
mine,  it  will  slide  along  the  wire  to  the  one  trawler 
or  the  other,"  he  explained  to  Jerry,  "an'  it's  very 
unhealthy  to  have  'em  come  too  close." 

The  wire  sawed  through  the  mooring  cable  which 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  85 

anchored  the  German  mine  to  the  bottom  and  there 
bobbed  up  a  huge  gray  bulb  that  floated  with  its 
row  of  horns  exposed.  It  was  ugly,  sinister,  menacing. 
Jerry  Harmstead  eyed  it  with  respect.  His  career 
in  a  destroyer  had  concerned  itself  more  with  tor 
pedoes  than  with  these  monstrous  devices  which 
were  strewn  in  ambush  outside  the  British  ports  by 
prowling  German  submarines. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  the  blamed  thing  now  you've 
got  it?"  he  asked  of  the  skipper. 

"Shoot  a  hole  in  it.  Take  a  shot  yourself  if  you 
like."  He  placed  a  rifle  in  Jerry's  hands.  The  crew 
waited  expectantly.  The  Yanks  were  expert  marks 
men,  no  doubt,  who  had  been  trained  to  pot  the 
red  Indians  that  infested  their  villages.  The  blue 
jacket  squinted  through  the  sights,  pulled  trigger,  and 
drilled  a  hole  in  the  great  gray  bulb  of  a  mine.  The 
air  rushed  out  of  the  buoyancy  chamber  and  the 
weight  of  the  explosive  charge  and  gear  dragged 
the  thing  down.  It  vanished  with  a  gurgle,  and  the 
canny  Scot  of  an  engineer  remarked: 

"Three  hundred  pound  mair  in  gude  money  for 
Fritz  to  charge  off  to  profit  an'  loss.  A  bonny  eye 
with  the  rifle,  eh,  lad?  Ye  will  earn  your  passage  in 
the  trawler." 

This  was  precisely  what  Jerry  intended  to  do. 
Idleness  was  intolerable.  And  he  ardently  admired 
these  courageous  North-Sea  fishermen  who  had  vol 
unteered  for  this  hard  and  hazardous  toil.  Moreover, 
they  had  saved  his  life  and  he  could  offer  no  other 
recompense  than  his  own  labor.  He  suggested  it  to 


86  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  skipper,  who  stubbornly  declared  that  it  was 
his  only  chance  to  entertain  the  American  Navy 
and  Jerry  should  loaf  like  a  gentleman  and  tell  them 
all  about  the  war.  Thereupon  Jerry  appealed  to  the 
mate,  who  admitted  that  he  needed  another  hand 
at  the  after  winch  where  the  sweep-wire  came  in  or 
was  paid  out  on  the  revolving  drums. 

It  was  deft  and  delicate  work,  but  the  training  of 
a  destroyer-man  had  taught  vigilance  and  a  quick 
coordination  of  mind  and  muscle.  Next  morning 
Jerry  took  his  station  by  the  massive  framework 
which  overhung  the  stern  like  a  squat  derrick  and 
helped  to  heave  the  kite  over  the  side.  This  was  a 
ponderous  raft  of  weighted  plank  which  slipped 
along  the  sweep-wire  for  a  short  distance  and  hung 
there,  several  feet  under  water,  to  keep  the  wire 
taut  between  the  trawlers  and  at  a  depth  which 
should  drag  up  the  anchored  mines.  Then  the  steam 
winch  roared  and  rattled  as  the  long  wire  slid 
through  the  sheaves  and  the  companion  trawler 
moved  ahead  with  the  other  end  of  it  fast  aboard. 

It  proved  to  be  a  lucky  day,  with  five  mines  fished 
up  and  destroyed  and  ten  pounds  reward  from  the 
Admiralty  for  each  mine  chalked  up  to  the  credit 
of  the  crew  of  the  Rose  of  Old  England.  The  skipper 
swore  that  Jerry  should  have  his  share  of  it,  and  the 
argument  was  so  heated  that  the  mate  intervened 
as  a  peacemaker.  The  weather  was  rough  and  the 
seas  slopped  on  deck,  but  the  stanch  steamer  with 
her  powerful  shear  had  battled  in  the  North  Sea 
for  years  and  this  was  no  worse  than  hauling  a  trawl 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  87 

on  the  Dogger  Bank.  Ten  men  there  were  of  this 
valiant  company,  most  of  them  out  of  Lowestoft 
and  kinsmen  by  blood  or  marriage.  They  hated  the 
Hun  with  a  holy  hatred  because  he  had  shelled  their 
red-sailed  smacks  or  run  amuck  among  their  drifters, 
killing  right  and  left,  boasting  of  victories  over 
helpless  fishermen,  but  turning  tail  at  sight  of  the 
White  Ensign  of  England's  Navy.  Jerry  listened 
and  clenched  his  fists.  The  depth  bombs  of  the 
destroyer  flotilla  were  the  proper  dose  for  Fritz. 

It  came  to  the  last  day's  sweeping  of  the  trawler's 
tour  of  duty.  Jerry  had  learned  the  trade  and  liked 
it.  He  was  standing  by  the  winch  with  three  of  the 
crew  when  the  skipper  gave  the  order  to  reel  in  the 
wire  and  make  ready  to  head  for  port.  The  steel 
drums  revolved  as  the  steam  hissed  in  the  engine 
valves.  The  dripping  wire  whined  through  the  sheaves 
that  hung  over  the  stern.  Jerry  and  a  trawler-man 
leaned  over  to  look  for  the  kite  or  ponderous  raft 
which  was  about  to  emerge  with  its  gear.  It  was 
their  task  to  hoist  it  over  the  bulwark  and  ease  it 
down  on  deck. 

One  end  of  the  kite  lifted  out  of  the  water,  swaying 
heavily.  With  it  came  a  gray,  bulbous  object  dec 
orated  with  a  row  of  metal  horns.  To  Jerry's  af 
frighted  vision  it  looked  as  big  as  a  balloon.  He 
comprehended  that  the  mine  had  become  entangled 
with  the  short  length  of  cable  which  held  the  kite 
in  position.  This  fiendish  contrivance  of  the  Hun  was 
about  to  bump  the  trawler's  side  or  come  aboard 
with  the  kite.  Either  way  it  meant  death  and  de- 


88  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

struction.  Jerry's  eyes  popped  out  of  his  head.  The 
winch  was  still  winding  in  the  wire  and  the  kite  and 
the  mire  together  were  steadily  coming  aboard. 
The  crisis  was  a  matter  of  seconds  only.  Jerry  tried 
to  yell  a  warning,  but  his  mouth  hung  open  and  he 
merely  gasped. 

The  trawler's  hope  of  salvation  was  in  stopping 
the  winch.  This  was  perfectly  obvious  to  all  con 
cerned.  An  instantaneous  calculation  convinced  the 
three  men  of  the  crew  that  it  could  n't  possibly  be 
done  in  time.  The  infernal  egg  of  the  Hun  was 
coming  aboard  hell-bent,  and  nothing  could  prevent 
it.  They  were  wise  at  the  trade  and  had  been  blown 
up  in  other  trawlers;  wherefore  they  knew  a  thing  or 
two.  It  was  nothing  against  their  courage,  but  they 
simultaneously  concluded  to  take  to  their  heels. 
It  was  panic,  if  you  like,  but  there  was  a  certain 
method  in  their  rush  toward  the  other  end  of  the 
doomed  trawler. 

From  a  corner  of  his  eye  Jerry  Harmstead,  or 
dinary  seaman,  beheld  this  swift  exodus.  It  was  for 
him  to  do  likewise,  but  his  legs  refused  to  obey  the 
impulse.  He  was  rooted  to  the  deck.  Inexorably  the 
winch  was  hoisting  the  damnable  mine  nearer  and 
nearer.  He  realized  why  his  comrades  had  fled. 
To  shut  off  steam  and  check  the  motion  of  the  geared 
drums  would  require  a  certain  amount  of  time.  And 
there  was  not  time  enough  to  spare.  Jerry  gulped 
as  he  saw  the  iron-shod  planking  of  the  kite  swing 
against  the  suspended  mine  with  a  metallic  thump. 
Then  they  lurched  toward  the  hull  of  the  trawler. 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  89 

He  expected  to  soar  skyward  amid  the  fragments 
of  the  vessel,  but  it  was  the  fat  belly  of  the  mine  and 
not  one  of  the  sensitive  horns  which  was  in  collision. 

The  situation  resembled  a  nightmare  in  which 
whole  chapters  of  horrors  employ  no  more  than  a 
fleeting  instant  of  actual  time.  Jerry  awoke,  emitted 
the  yell  which  had  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  bounded 
for  the  winch.  It  was  stupid  to  die  without  a  final 
effort.  He  would  go  through  the  motions  of  stopping 
the  machinery,  at  any  rate,  even  if  he  and  the 
winch  should  go  to  kingdom  come  together.  He 
jerked  the  sliding  rod  which  controlled  the  steam 
pressure,  but  the  cogs  and  drums  still  rumbled  on, 
turning  over  with  their  own  momentum.  He  flung 
himself  against  the  long  brake  lever  with  the  fury 
of  a  young  giant.  The  iron  bands  squealed  as  they 
bit  the  hubs  of  the  drums.  Jerry  put  his  back  into  it 
and  grimly  hung  on.  He  had  no  idea  of  letting  go. 

The  massive  winch  came  to  a  halt.  The  en 
tangled  mine  was  almost  clear  of  the  water,  but  it 
was  not  dragging  against  the  trawler.  There  was  a 
respite,  until  the  crew  could  disengage  the  twisted 
cables  and  release  the  sociable  mine  which  had  in 
sisted  on  paying  a  visit.  Jerry  sat  down  abruptly 
and  felt  inclined  to  weep,  but  this  was  so  unmanly 
in  a  Yankee  seaman  of  a  dashing  destroyer's  crew 
that  he  was  greatly  chagrined.  Skipper  Rawson  came 
trotting  aft  on  those  stout  bow-legs  of  his  and  Jerry 
fancied  that  the  gray  whiskers  were  standing  on  end. 
Fairly  hugging  the  lad  with  both  arms,  the  old  man 
blurted: 


90 SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Handsomely  done!  A  jolly  fine  bit  o'  work. 
The  blinkin'  Hun  all  but  did  us  in,  what?  The 
first  time  I  ever  saw  a  mine  try  to  crawl  aboard!" 

"No  bouquets,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  Jerry  of 
the  rueful  countenance.  "None  of  that  boy-stood-on- 
the-burning-deck  stuff.  I  did  n't  know  any  better, 
and  I  was  too  blamed  scared  to  run." 

"A  modest  Yank!  I've  heard  different  of  'em," 
quoth  the  skipper.  "Do  you  hear  that,  Mr.  Mac 
intosh?  He  was  too  scared  to  run." 

"I  dinna  doot  it,"  sagely  observed  the  engineer. 
"I  wud  ha'  been  the  same  way  mysel'.  We  will  na 
blame  the  men  for  scamperin'  awa'.  'T  is  harrd 
to  get  used  to  bein'  blown  up." 

Sheepishly  the  crew  of  the  winch  stepped  up  to 
shake  hands  and  murmur  an  awkward  word  or  two 
of  thanks  before  they  climbed  outboard  to  set  free 
the  mine  and  the  kite  gear.  This  was  a  perilous  task, 
extraordinarily  so,  but  they  went  at  it  with  un- 
flurried,  deliberate  method.  They  grinned  at  each 
other  as  though  they  had  been  victims  of  a  practical 
joke.  At  Lowestoft  and  Grimsby  and  Yarmouth  the 
trawler  fleets  would  be  chuckling  over  it  for  a  month 
of  Sundays.  However,  they  were  conscious  of  an 
exalted  respect  for  the  American  Navy,  and  the 
entente  cordiale  was  more  firmly  riveted. 

When  the  Rose  of  Old  England  resumed  the  in 
terrupted  voyage  into  port,  Jerry  Harmstead  be 
came  confidential  in  response  to  the  skipper's  affec 
tionate  persuasions.  The  ship's  company  was  anxious 
to  subscribe  for  a  gift  to  the  Yankee  hero  as  a  token 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN 91 

and  a  souvenir,  a  silver  cup  or  a  piece  of  plate  suitably 
engraved.  The  mate  had  suggested  it  and  the  men 
were  delighted.  Jerry  protested  that  he  had  only  one 
desire  in  the  world.  There  was  a  blot  on  his  record 
with  the  destroyer  flotilla.  If  Skipper  Rawson  and 
his  men  could  help  to  wipe  it  out,  Jerry's  gratitude 
would  be  eternal. 

When  the  Rose  of  Old  England  had  found  a  berth 
inside  the  break-water  among  a  score  of  other 
battered  trawlers  and  drifters,  Skipper  Thomas 
Rawson  changed  into  his  black  clothes,  white  shirt, 
and  top  hat,  and  ordered  a  boat.  Jerry  was  invited 
to  accompany  him  ashore.  For  the  next  hour  the 
proceedings  smacked  of  mystery.  The  skipper 
stumped  hither  and  yon  on  various  errands  and 
Jerry  was  left  to  loiter  at  a  hotel.  Then  the  crew  of 
the  trawler  appeared,  to  the  last  man,  having  dis 
carded  boots  and  jerseys  for  their  very  best  rigs.  A 
kilted  piper  appeared,  arm-in-arm  with  the  engineer, 
and  played  the  party  into  a  private  dining-room. 

Above  the  long  table  were  draped  the  White 
Ensign  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  When  Jerry  was 
escorted  to  the  seat  of  honor,  he  discovered  a  roll 
of  parchment  tied  with  a  bit  of  bunting.  He  paused 
to  read  the  few  lines  of  script  thereon  and  noted 
the  blank  space  beneath: 

We,  the  officers  and  men  of  H.M.S.  Armed  Trawler  Rose 
of  Old  England  do  hereby  most  respectfully  address  this  re 
port  to  the  senior  officer  commanding  the  American  Naval 
Forces  at  Queenstown.  While  temporarily  acting  as  seaman 
aboard  this  vessel,  Jerry  Harmstead  did  acquit  himself  with 


92  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

great  gallantry,  saving  the  lives  of  the  undersigned  and  one 
of  His  Majesty's  ships  from  total  destruction.  It  would 
please  us  if  his  service  could  be  recognized  as  part  of  his 
record  with  the  destroyer  flotilla  in  European  waters. 

There  were  loud  demands  for  a  speech,  but  the 
Yankee  bluejacket  begged  for  time.  One  by  one  his 
trawler  mates  affixed  their  signatures  to  the  precious 
document  which  Jerry  tucked  inside  his  blouse  as 
though  afraid  of  losing  it.  The  dinner  was  in  full 
tide  when  an  officer  of  the  Royal  Navy,  wearing  the 
sleeve  stripes  of  a  commander,  entered  the  room 
and  the  party  clattered  to  its  feet.  He  shook  hands 
with  Skipper  Rawson,  introduced  himself  to  Jerry 
as  the  man  in  charge  of  the  trawler  base,  and  handed 
him  an  Admiralty  envelope,  explaining: 

"I  have  signaled  Queenstown  that  you  are  safe  and 

sound.  Here  is  your  railway  transportation  and  —  er 

-  a  line  to  your  captain.  Please  tell  him  for  me  that 

if  he  will  lose  a  few  more  lads  like  you  for  us  to  pick 

up,  I  shall  consider  it  a  favor." 

Two  days  later  Jerry  Harmstead  stood  on  the 
naval  pier  and  gazed  at  a  group  of  American  de 
stroyers,  gaily  striped  with  dazzle  paint,  which 
nestled  side  by  side  at  the  mooring  buoys.  His  own 
ship  was  there.  Soon  a  motor  dory  floated  up  to 
the  weedy  staircase  and  the  derelict  seaman  beheld 
in  the  cockpit  the  burly  figure  of  Martin  Delaney, 
that  hard  and  hairy  quartermaster  of  the  old  Navy. 

"Me  long-lost  boy!"  bellowed  Martin,  waving 
his  cap.  "And  a  real  gob !  The  message  came  through. 
You  have  been  seeing  life." 


TOO  SCARED  TO  RUN  93 

"I  tore  off  a  chapter  or  two,"  admitted  Jerry  as 
he  jumped  into  the  boat.  "Is  the  old  man  aboard? 
I  have  something  to  show  him." 

"He  is  that.  And  he  is  waitin'  to  see  you,  as  fidgety 
as  a  hen." 

"Go  to  it,  Martin.  I've  been  away  long  enough. 
Did  they  auction  off  my  clothes  and  kit-bag?" 

"As  duly  deceased  and  dead  entirely,  Jerry,  me 
darlin'?  Divil  a  bit  of  it.  I  would  n't  let  'em.  'T  was 
me  hunch  that  ye  could  n't  be  drownded  as  easy  as 
all  that." 

The  destroyer  captain  was  pacing  the  deck  when 
his  ordinary  seaman  climbed  aboard  and  saluted. 
Jerry  waited  not  for  ceremony,  but  hastily  pre 
sented  the  roll  of  parchment.  Carefully  the  captain 
scanned  it  and  his  bold  features  wore  an  expression 
of  quizzical  interest.  His  voice  was  cordial  as  he 
said: 

"That  is  well  worth  keeping,  Harmstead.  I 
would  n't  mind  winning  such  an  honor  myself. 
You  turned  the  trick  this  time." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  was  too  scared  to  run,"  earnestly 
replied  the  hero.  He  hesitated,  colored,  and  added 
imploringly:  "Do  I  get  soaked  for  a  general  court 
—  about  —  about  those  Sinn-Feiners  that  I  mussed 
up?" 

"I  am  going  aboard  the  flagship  right  away.  I 
guess  the  indictment  is  quashed.  You  beat  them  to 
it." 

"That's  simply  great,  sir!"  cried  the  beaming 
Jerry.  "What  about  my  record?  I  deserved  what 


94  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

you  gave  me,  of  course,  but  —  but  it  means  an 
awful  lot  to  me  to  have  a  clean  slate,  and  — " 

"I  don't  think  your  record  will  stand  in  the  way 
of  promotion,"  smiled  the  destroyer  captain.  "I 
have  decided  to  rate  you  as  a  gunner's  mate,  third 
class." 


THE  QUIET  LIFE 

SOBER  and  middle-aged  was  William  Christian 
Blodgett,  chief  gunner's  mate.  Because  he  talked 
only  when  he  had  something  to  say  he  was  regarded 
by  the  frivolous  youth  of  the  destroyer's  crew  as  a 
wise  guy.  The  thoughtful  silences  of  William  and 
his  brief,  deliberate  comments  conveyed  an  im 
pression  of  common  sense  seasoned  by  varied  ex 
periences.  He  moved  methodically  within  his  own 
orbit  and  the  chronometers  in  the  chart-room  were 
no  more  dependable.  The  Navy  prizes  such  chief 
petty  officers  as  worth  their  weight  in  gold.  The 
hardships  of  winter  weather  on  convoy  duty  in  the 
wild  Atlantic  had  wrung  no  complaints  from  William 
Blodgett.  He  had  the  toughened,  wind-reddened 
look  of  the  deep-water  sailor  in  whom  endurance 
has  become  a  habit. 

It  was  not  until  the  fitful  sunshine  and  the  milder 
air  came  as  the  heralds  of  spring  to  the  Irish  coast 
that  the  doctor  said  to  the  commander,  after  dinner 
in  the  ward-room: 

"This  outfit  of  ours  has  stood  the  racket  mighty 
well.  The  health  record  surprises  me.  Cramped 
quarters,  bad  air  below,  men  wet  half  the  time,  I 
rather  expected  some  sickness." 

"They  thrive  on  it,"  smiled  the  skipper.  "I'll 
confess  that  I  have  lost  twenty  pounds  and  feel 
several  years  older  than  when  I  joined  the  flotilla, 


96  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

but  it's  the  responsibility  of  the  job,  I  suppose. 
These  blessed  boys  take  it  as  it  comes.  It's  a  won 
derful  thing  to  be  husky  and  twenty.  'A  great  life 
so  long  as  you  don't  weaken,'  is  their  motto." 

"Right  you  are,"  agreed  the  doctor.  "They  can 
sleep  standing  on  their  heads,  and  they  eat  like 
wolves  when  this  poor  old  destroyer  is  rolling  her 
funnels  under.  Older  men  take  it  harder.  The  game 
is  more  apt  to  get  hold  of  their  nerves  and  — " 

"That  reminds  me,"  the  commander  exclaimed. 
"You  said  something  a  few  days  ago  about  William 
Blodgett.  I  ought  to  have  noticed  it  myself,  perhaps, 
but  the  symptoms  got  by  me.  I  have  been  keeping 
an  eye  on  him  since  you  tipped  me  off.  He  has  begun 
to  crack.  No  mistake  about  it." 

"Oh,  nothing  very  serious  yet,  if  he  has  a  chance 
to  mend,  but  he  really  is  n't  fit  to  carry  on.  He  will 
deny  it,  of  course." 

"Let  me  send  for  him,"  suggested  the  skipper. 
He  rang  for  a  messenger  and  added  mournfully, 
"I  hate  to  think  of  losing  William,  even  for  one 


cruise." 


Five  minutes  later  the  chief  gunner's  mate  an 
swered  the  summons.  He  looked  as  fit  as  if  he  had 
bathed,  shaved,  and  jumped  into  a  freshly  pressed 
uniform  during  this  fleeting  interval.  There  was 
about  him  an  air  of  such  solid  strength  and  poise 
that  one  felt  as  though  almost  anything  could  be 
left  to  William.  Cap  in  hand  he  stood  at  one  end  of 
the  ward-room  table,  his  honest  features  betraying 
a  slight  curiosity. 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  97 

"Your  enlistment  expires  this  week,  Blodgett," 
said  the  commander,  with  a  friendly  nod.  "Going 
to  sign  on  for  another  hitch?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know,  sir.  What  else  would  I 
be  doing?"  was  the  serious  answer. 

"Bully!  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  You  have  earned  a 
vacation.  Why  not  take  it?  I  can  arrange  thirty 
days'  leave  for  you.  This  won't  give  you  time  to  go 
home  to  God's  country,  but  you  can  stretch  your 
legs  ashore  and  loaf  around  a  bit." 

"But  I'm  not  asking  for  liberty,  sir,"  protested 
William  in  accents  of  surprise.  "There's  content 
ment  enough  in  making  life  unhappy  with  Fritz." 

"How  old  are  you,  Blodgett?"  put  in  the  doctor. 

"Forty-six,  sir.  I  came  into  the  Navy  late,  after 
a  good  many  years  in  the  merchant  service." 

"Ah,  yes.  And  how  many  hours'  sleep  do  you 
average  a  night  —  say  for  the  last  month?" 

The  chief  gunner's  mate  appeared  confused,  as  if 
he  had  been  caught  unawares.  Hesitating  a  moment, 
he  replied: 

"About  three,  I  should  think,  sir,  but  I  am  always 
wide-awake  on  duty." 

"I  have  seen  you  prowling  and  fidgeting  on  deck 
when  you  were  off  watch,"  chided  the  commander. 
"And  when  the  galley  door  slammed  just  now  you 
jumped  as  if  a  depth  bomb  had  been  let  go.  I'll  take 
the  doctor's  word  for  it.  What  about  a  trip  to  Lon 
don?  If  you  are  short  of  cash  for  a  holiday,  say  the 
word  and  I'll  be  glad  to  lend  — " 

"I'm    strong    with    the    paymaster,    sir,"    was 


98  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

William's  assurance.  "There's  quite  a  bundle  to  my 
credit.  If  this  is  an  order,  sir,  I  presume  I  '11  have  to 
go,  although  I  feel  as  if  I  was  shirking  my  duty." 

"Better  cheer  up  and  make  the  best  of  it,"  advised 
the  doctor.  "You  don't  want  to  be  sent  home  on 
your  beam-ends  as  a  nervous  derelict.  Beat  it  for 
somewhere  and  enjoy  yourself.  Forget  you  ever  saw 
a  destroyer.  Haven't  you  a  hobby  of  some  sort?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Farming!  I  subscribe  to  The  New 
England  Homestead,  and  it  comes  to  me  regular. 
I  hope  to  own  a  farm  some  day.  I  'd  enjoy  rummagin' 
about  the  Irish  country,  come  to  think  of  it,  and 
learning  things.  They  know  how  to  raise  pigs, 
potatoes,  and  beef  cattle." 

"The  quiet  life  for  yours!  Just  the  thing!"  cried 
the  doctor.  "Go  to  it.  You  will  come  back  ready  to 
bite  the  periscopes  off  a  U-boat." 

"Good  luck,  Blodgett,"  said  the  skipper,  shaking 
hands  with  his  chief  gunner's  mate.  "You  can  get 
away  to-morrow,  if  you  like." 

William  saluted  and  withdrew  to  the  deck,  where 
he  said  nothing  about  the  kindly  interest  displayed 
by  his  officers.  During  these  recent  weeks  he  had 
become  even  more  reticent  than  usual,  fighting  it 
out  alone,  weary  for  the  sleep  that  pitifully  eluded 
him,  afraid  of  betraying  to  his  comrades  how  near 
he  was  to  giving  way  under  some  sudden  tension.  It 
seemed  unmanly  to  admit  that  he  needed  a  respite, 
and  he  resolved  to  steal  away  from  the  ship  with 
no  farewells.  This  was  a  forlorn,  lonely  way  of  setting 
out  on  a  vacation,  as  William  Christian  Blodgett 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  99 

realized  when  he  had  packed  a  bag  and  was  set 
ashore  at  the  naval  pier  in  Queenstown.  He  felt 
like  a  fugitive  as  he  walked  in  the  direction  of  the 
railway  station  with  no  particular  destination  in 
mind. 

The  only  train  bound  anywhere  for  several  hours 
would  carry  him  no  farther  than  Cork.  There  were 
reasons  why  enlisted  men  and  junior  officers  of  the 
American  Navy  were  forbidden  to  visit  this  famous 
city  by  the  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee.  It  had 
been  their  earnest  intention  to  make  certain  noisy 
Sinn-Feiners  hard  to  find,  but  the  admiral's  edict 
interfered.  The  diversions  of  Cork  were  not  for  the 
sedate  chief  gunner's  mate,  who  was  loitering  near 
the  station  in  a  low-spirited  humor  when  he  beheld  a 
friend  whom  he  did  not  have  to  avoid.  This  was  a 
brisk  little  man  of  a  sandy  complexion  who  wore 
the  uniform  of  a  petty  officer  of  the  Royal  Navy 
with  a  coxswain's  badge  on  the  sleeve.  He,  too,  had 
a  bag  in  his  fist,  and  at  sight  of  William  Blodgett 
he  exclaimed  with  a  grin : 

"What,  ho,  matey!  Where  to?  Or  are  you  sailin' 
with  sealed  orders  for  a  secret  base?" 

"God  knows,  Parslow,"  was  the  cheerless  reply. 
"I  was  kicked  ashore  for  my  health  and  I'm  under 
orders  to  serve  thirty  days  of  the  quiet  life." 

Coxswain  James  Parslow,  of  H.M.S.  Adventure, 
sloop-of-war,  surveyed  the  rugged  Yankee  sailor 
and  his  eye  twinkled  as  he  said: 

"You're  a  perishin'  invalid,  you  are,  Blodgett. 
And  what  is  your  silly  idea  of  a  quiet  life?" 


100  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Farms  and  pigs  and  things.  I  like  'em,"  mildly 
explained  the  chief  gunner's  mate.  "I  shall  in 
vestigate  rural  Ireland." 

"In  your  blue  uniform  with  the  brass  buttons?" 
sarcastically  queried  the  coxswain.  "Rural  Ireland 
will  jolly  well  pot  you  from  behind  a  hedge.  The 
natives  of  these  parts  make  their  own  game  laws." 

"I  am  specially  instructed  to  be  careful  of  my 
nerves,  Parslow,"  replied  William  Blodgett.  "Your 
remarks  don't  listen  right  to  me." 

"Let  us  adjourn  to  the  Three  Shamrocks  and 
discuss  it,"  urged  the  coxswain.  "A  bit  of  bread 
and  cheese  and  a  pint  o'  beer  will  come  handy.  I'm 
on  leave  myself,  a  fortnight,  to  see  the  old  girl  in 
Merry  England.  Down  in  Norfolk,  what?  They  can 
show  you  real  farmin'!  I  say,  Blodgett,  come  along 
with  me.  The  allied  naval  forces  stick  together, 
and  we'll  bend  the  Stars  and  Stripes  and  the  White 
Ensign  on  the  same  flag-hoist." 

"Quiet  and  soothing,  is  it?"  demanded  the  Ameri 
can. 

"Bless  your  'eart,  they  don't  know  there's  a  war," 
Parslow  declared. 

"You're  on,  though  I  never  expected  to  be  steam- 
in'  off  arm  in  arm  with  the  Royal  Navy,"  declaimed 
the  chief  gunner's  mate.  "It's  any  port  in  a  storm." 

Together  they  journeyed  to  Dublin  and  crossed 
by  steamer  to  Holy  head.  William's  spirits  were  ris 
ing.  His  companion  had  assumed  the  role  of  nurse 
and  guardian  and  seemed  delighted  with  the  task. 
When  Blodgett  drowsed  and  three  Tommies  in- 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  101 

sisted  on  singing  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  the  faith 
ful  little  coxswain  informed  them  that  he  would 
knock  the  block  off  any  bloke  that  could  n't  stow 
his  lip  and  behave  'isself  like  a  gentleman. 

"This  Yank  grabbed  a  German  submarine  and 
choked  it  to  death  with  his  bare  hands,"  he  was 
kind  enough  to  explain.  "He  needs  a  rest  and  I'm 
'ere  to  see  that  he  gets  it." 

They  sat  up  all  night  in  a  crowded  compartment 
of  the  train  for  London  and  tumbled  out  to  find  the 
nearest  hotel.  It  was  not  open  for  guests,  however, 
because  a  bomb  from  a  German  airplane  had  smashed 
it  a  few  hours  earlier.  The  front  of  the  building  had 
tumbled  into  the  street  which  was  blocked  with 
vast  heaps  of  debris.  Cordons  of  police  held  back 
the  curious  crowds  and  the  brass-helmeted  firemen 
were  digging  the  bodies  of  women  and  children  out 
of  the  ruins.  Coxswain  Parslow  muttered  a  curse 
between  his  teeth  and  said: 

"The  murderin'  swine!  They  must  be  proud  o' 
that  bit  of  work.  You  and  I  will  have  to  find  another 
moorin'  buoy.  They  made  a  proper  job  of  that  un 
fortunate  hotel.  We'll  spend  a  couple  of  days  in 
London  town  and  do  the  bally  concert  halls." 

William  Blodgett  seemed  bedazed.  He  had  seen 
nothing  like  this  wicked  slaying  of  innocent  people, 
this  blind,  insensate  demolition.  A  bystander  said, 
with  a  laugh: 

"A  full  moon  to-night,  and  the  blighters  will  be 
flying  over  again  to  drop  more  pills.  They're  sure 
to  come  in  weather  like  this." 


102  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

The  chief  gunner's  mate  shivered.  A  sense  of  fear 
gripped  him  and  he  was  unable  to  shake  it  off. 
Sleep?  He  could  never  find  sleep  in  London  with  this 
memory  to  haunt  him.  Now  he  realized  that  his 
nerves  were  indeed  unstrung,  that  his  vital  forces  had 
ebbed.  Almost  piteously  he  implored  the  coxswain: 

"I  want  to  lay  a  course  for  Norfolk  where  you  say 
it's  so  quiet.  Stay  if  you  like.  Don't  mind  me.  But 
I've  got  enough  of  London,  understand?" 

"Fed  up  already?"  was  the  sympathetic  response. 
"I  can't  blame  you  none.  I  was  merely  suggestin* 
a  spree.  It's  all  the  same  to  me,  matey.  We'll  hook 
up  and  resume  the  voyage  after  breakfast." 

William  suffered  himself  to  be  led  in  tow,  reflect 
ing  that  he  much  preferred  risking  a  torpedo  in  the 
open  sea  to  this  dastardly  game  of  the  Hun.  He  was 
not  in  the  least  concerned  for  the  safety  of  his  own 
skin.  A  man  with  the  destroyer  flotilla  learned  to 
forget  such  trifles  as  life  and  death,  but  it  was  not 
good  for  tired  nerves  to  dwell  with  the  horrors 
which  menaced  other  wives  and  kiddies  in  this 
swarming  London.  Coxswain  James  Parslow  per 
ceived  that  his  friend  was  unhappy,  and  he  was 
therefore  moved  to  suggest: 

"I  tell  you  what,  Blodgett.  We'll  lay  over  at 
Ramswick  on  the  way  down.  It's  an  East  Coast 
naval  base,  do  you  see,  where  I  was  stationed  for 
the  first  two  years  of  this  bleedin'  war.  There's  pals 
of  mine  in  every  ship  and  they  '11  give  you  a  welcome 
that'll  warm  the  cockles  of  your  heart.  Trust  me  to 
pass  the  word  to  keep  it  all  quiet  and  soothin'." 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  103 

This  appealed  to  the  chief  gunner's  mate  as  a 
pleasant  diversion.  What  he  most  needed  was  a 
change  from  his  own  rigorous  routine,  and  after  a 
sociable  visit  with  the  lime-juicers  he  could  proceed 
on  his  course  to  study  cows,  cabbages,  and  pigs. 

"Harkee,  Jim,  no  violence,"  he  replied  in  his 
measured  manner.  "You  know  what  the  instructions 
are.  It's  a  great  navy  you  have,  but  prohibition  has 
passed  it  by.  And  it  would  not  be  good  for  my  symp 
toms  to  get  soused  to  the  neck." 

"Leave  it  to  me,  old  top,"  declared  the  kindly 
coxswain.  "I'll  handle  you  as  careful  as  a  basket 
of  eggs.  In  a  manner  of  speakin'  this  is  convoy  duty 
for  me  and  as  your  naval  escort  I'm  bound  to  fetch 
you  clear  of  mines  and  torpedoes." 

They  returned  to  the  railway  station  an  hour 
later  and  elbowed  through  the  crowds  which  had 
gathered  to  meet  an  infantry  battalion  bound  for 
the  front.  William  paid  for  his  ticket  from  a  wad 
of  crumpled  pound  notes  which  he  fished  from  a 
pocket  and  was  unaware  that  financial  disaster  had 
overtaken  him  until  the  train  had  left  London  far 
behind.  Then  he  happened  to  feel  for  the  leather 
wallet  which  had  been  tucked  inside  the  double- 
breasted  coat.  It  was  not  there.  With  it  had  van 
ished  the  considerable  amount  of  cash  which  he 
had  drawn  from  the  paymaster.  A  pickpocket  had 
shown  no  respect  for  the  uniform  of  the  American 
Navy.  Sadly  William  Blodgett  stared  through  the 
window  at  the  lovely  English  landscape  and  won 
dered  what  he  could  do  with  thirty  days'  leave. 


104  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

The  money  left  in  his  clothes  would  not  even 
carry  him  back  to  Queenstown.  He  had  no  intention 
of  sponging  on  the  British  Navy.  The  honor  of  his 
own  service  compelled  him  to  stand  on  his  own  two 
feet  and  pay  his  share  as  he  went.  The  thought  of 
letting  word  of  his  plight  get  back  to  the  flotilla 
was  intolerable.  He  would  never  hear  the  last  of  it. 
Those  godless  youngsters  of  his  own  destroyer  would 
insist  that  William  Christian  Blodgett,  pattern  of 
propriety  and  an  example  for  all  flighty  bluejackets, 
had  embarked  on  a  solitary  toot  and  was  sending  out 
S.O.S.  calls.  In  short,  he  would  be  slandered  as  a  dis 
solute  gob  of  the  old  school. 

Now  verging  on  melancholia,  the  chief  gunner's 
mate  was  such  very  dismal  company  that  Coxswain 
James  Parslow  wondered  if  he  had  not  undertaken 
a  task  that  might  prove  too  much  for  him.  Perhaps 
poor  old  Blodgett  was  a  bit  cracked  in  the  maintop. 
When  it  took  a  turn  like  this  a  man  might  get  an 
odd  notion  of  hanging  himself  or  using  a  razor  on 
his  windpipe.  The  thing  was  to  humor  him  and  hope 
for  a  fair  breeze. 

Before  noon  they  came  to  a  harbor  and  a  long 
pier  facing  the  gray  North  Sea.  Battered  trawlers 
with  mine-sweeping  gear  aboard  were  anchored  in 
flocks.  Divisions  of  rakish  destroyers  rode  in  column. 
A  squadron  of  swift  light  cruisers  seemed  ready  to 
swoop  seaward  at  an  hour's  notice.  William  Blodgett 
brightened  perceptibly  and  seemed  to  take  some  in 
terest  in  life. 

"The    minute    you    wandered    inland    you    felt 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  105 

miserable,"  was  the  verdict  of  Coxswain  Parslow. 
"That's  what's  the  matter,  Bill.  This  fancy  for 
farmin'  and  such  is  all  in  my  eye.  Sailor-men  is  full 
of  them  queer  theories.  Stand  by,  and  we'll  take 
the  bloomin'  British  Navy  to  pieces  and  see  what 
makes  it  tick." 

They  wandered  along  the  pier  and  William's  pro 
fessional  eye  kindled  with  animation,  but  he  could 
not  forget  his  financial  tragedy.  He  was  stranded  far 
from  his  own  port  and  people  and  he  dared  not  return 
to  them  inside  of  thirty  days.  At  the  head  of  the  pier 
was  a  rusty,  wall-sided  cargo  steamer  flying  the  red 
duster.  She  was  a  British  tramp  such  as  wanders  over 
the  Seven  Seas.  Amid  these  fleets  of  naval  vessels,  so 
trim,  alert,  and  smartly  manned,  she  appeared  for 
lornly  uncouth.  A  few  of  her  crew  idled  on  deck  or 
shoved  boxes  of  stores  down  the  gangway.  They, 
too,  were  unkempt  in  grimy  dungarees  and  patched 
sweaters.  They  belonged  with  such  a  ship  as  this. 

Coxswain  Parslow  halted  to  chat  with  a  Navy  man 
who  had  some  errand  on  the  pier  and  asked  him  a 
question  about  the  ocean  tramp. 

"Broke  down  outside  and  a  destroyer  towed  her 
in  for  temporary  repairs.  Bound  to  some  French  port 
with  timber  for  trench  props.  She'll  be  sailing  to 
night." 

"Plucky  beggars  —  nothing  wrong  with  British 
merchant  seamen,"  was  the  coxswain's  eulogy. 

"Right-o!  And  this  old  hooker  is  short-handed  at 
that.  But  she'll  kick  along  just  the  same,  and  Fritz 
be  blowed." 


106  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

William  Blodgett  was  listening  with  an  expression 
of  eager  attention.  The  idea  once  grasped,  his  me 
thodical  mind  was  working  out  the  details.  It  offered 
an  escape  from  his  difficulties  and  solved  the  tor 
menting  problem.  Twenty  years  in  the  merchant 
service  would  make  him  a  handy  man  aboard  any 
steamer.  In  fact,  he  had  sailed  as  mate  of  better  ves 
sels  than  this  sorry-looking  water-bruiser.  Grasping 
the  coxswain  by  the  arm,  he  exclaimed: 

"Short-handed,  did  he  say?  That  looks  good  to 
me,  Jim.  If  it's  a  round  trip  to  France  she  ought  to 
do  it  well  inside  thirty  days." 

"My  Gawd,  Blodgett,  but  you  have  gone  balmy!" 
cried  the  bewildered  guardian.  "What  about  the 
quiet  life?" 

"There  it  is,"  and  William  waved  a  hand  at  the 
cargo  boat.  "You  loaf  along  at  seven  or  eight  knots, 
and  you  don't  get  all  mixed  up  with  drill  and  dis 
cipline  and  general  alarms  and  depth  bombs  and  such 
truck.  You  wear  ragged  pants  and  smoke  your  pipe 
and  shave  once  a  week." 

"But  you  raved  about  farmin',  you  silly  ass,"  was 
the  reproachful  retort. 

"I  guess  I'm  homesick  out  of  sight  of  salt-water," 
plaintively  argued  William. 

"Huh!  Somebody  forgot  to  lock  the  padded  cell 
when  you  escaped  from  that  giddy  destroyer  of 
yours."  James  Parslow  paused  to  cogitate.  He  re 
moved  his  cap  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  sandy 
hair.  This  wandering  Yank  was  afflicted  with  bats  in 
the  conning  tower.  It  was  wise  to  humor  him. 


/    THE  QUIET  LIFE  107 

"If  you  don't  mind  steppin'  aboard,  Jim,  and  put- 
tin'  it  up  to  the  skipper,"  ventured  William.  "I'll 
have  to  be  vouched  for,  of  course." 

"Glad  to  oblige,"  heartily  exclaimed  the  coxswain. 
"You  wait  here  and  I'll  arrange  this  little  matter." 

He  advanced  at  his  brisk  gait,  and  was  permitted 
to  pass  by  the  Royal  Marines  who  were  doing  sentry 
duty  at  the  head  of  the  pier.  William  Christian  Blod- 
gett  sat  himself  down  upon  a  bollard  and  foresaw  a 
pleasant,  restful  vacation,  also  a  month's  wages  in 
his  pocket.  The  risk  of  being  blown  to  glory  by  a 
torpedo  entered  not  into  his  calculations.  This  had 
never  cost  him  any  sleep  in  the  destroyer  service. 
The  strain  was  in  keeping  the  ship  and  the  crew  at 
the  fighting  edge,  every  moment  of  the  day  and 
night.  This  blessed  old  tramp  would  take  her  luck  as 
it  came.  William  was  actually  whistling  when  the 
coxswain  trotted  back  to  inform  him: 

"I  recommended  you  'ighly,  Bill,  and  the  skipper 
says  he'll  take  you  on.  Report  aboard  at  six  o'clock 
to-night.  What  now?" 

"Steer  me  to  a  slop-shop  and  an  outfit  of  old  duds. 
Then  some  slumber!  I  can  pound  my  ear  like  an  in 
fant." 

"Then  it's  good-bye  and  good  luck  to  you,  ship 
mate,"  said  the  coxswain.  "Mind  you  now  —  I've 
tried  to  please  you,  Blodgett,  for  the  sake  of  the  al 
lied  navies.  Give  a  man  what  he  asks  for,  says  I.  You 
insist  on  surgin'  off  to  sea  in  this  filthy  old  tub  and 
if  she  drowns  you,  don't  blame  me." 

"The  quiet  life,  Parslow,"  smiled  William  Blod- 


108  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

gett.  "Look  me  up  in  Queenstown.  I'm  feeling  fifty 
per  cent  better  already." 

The  afternoon  had  waned  when  the  chief  gunner's 
mate  rolled  out  of  bed  in  a  waterside  tavern  and  in 
serted  himself  into  the  nondescript  garments  of  a 
merchant  seaman.  He  felt  easy,  relaxed,  like  a  slack 
ened  hawser  that  had  been  stretched  too  taut.  His 
gait  was  slouchy  and  his  hands  were  in  his  pockets  as 
he  passed  into  the  street.  A  few  more  purchases,  oil 
skins,  a  sou'wester,  and  a  tin  of  tobacco,  and  he  went 
to  the  pier.  Evidently  the  sentries  recognized  him, 
for  he  was  not  asked  to  show  a  pass. 

The  steamer  was  taking  on  coal  from  a  barge  along 
side  and  the  black  dust  covered  her  decks.  She  was 
more  disreputable  than  ever.  A  sooty  seaman  jerked 
a  thumb  over  his  shoulder  to  indicate  the  skipper's 
cabin  and  Blodgett  clambered  to  the  superstructure. 
He  knocked  at  the  door  and  a  strong  voice  bade  him 
enter.  William  was  somewhat  surprised  at  confronting 
a  man  much  younger  than  himself  who  conveyed  an 
impression  of  clean-cut  efficiency.  Something  wrong 
with  his  record,  shrewdly  reflected  the  American 
sailor,  or  he  would  be  holding  a  better  berth  than 
this.  A  man  of  education,  too,  as  his  voice  and  man 
ner  disclosed. 

"Glad  to  have  you  aboard,  Blodgett,"  said  he. 
"Your  friend,  the  coxswain,  told  me  who  you  were. 
It  is  a  trifle  irregular,  perhaps,  and  the  Seaman's 
Union  might  object.  If  agreeable  to  you  I  will  rate 
you  second  mate.  The  steward  will  show  you  a  room 
and  I  fancy  you'll  want  some  supper." 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  109 

This  gentlemanly  welcome  was  unexpected.  Wil 
liam  thanked  him  and  backed  out  of  the  cabin,  but 
delayed  to  ponder  before  seeking  the  steward.  The 
Britishers  were  a  fine  lot,  in  his  opinion,  but  not  as 
sharp-witted  as  their  American  cousins.  They  were 
carelessly  good-natured,  ready  to  believe  the  best  of 
everybody.  Now  a  man  with  half  an  eye  could  see 
that  this  youthful,  keen,  and  decisive  skipper  was 
out  of  place  in  a  dingy  cargo  tramp.  His  crisply 
modulated  speech  had  been  acquired  elsewhere.  It 
was  what  a  German  naval  officer  might  have  picked 
up  by  careful  study.  And  it  was  an  audacious  trick, 
well  worth  trying,  to  have  a  breakdown  in  the  engine- 
room  while  outside  this  important  East  Coast  base 
of  the  British  Navy  and  be  towed  right  in  among  the 
fleet  for  purposes  of  observation.  The  crew  might 
pass  as  Scandinavians  and  the  like. 

"And  I  drift  along  most  convenient,"  said  William 
to  himself,  "and  he  jumps  at  the  chance  to  take  me 
on  for  a  voyage  so  he  can  extract  what  I  know  about 
the  American  naval  forces  in  the  war  zone.  Fine 
business!  I'll  get  better  acquainted  with  this  bird." 

So  much  for  the  sagacious  deductions  of  William. 
They  were  somewhat  upset  when  he  met  the  other 
officers  at  the  supper-table.  English  they  were  to  a 
man,  a  gray-whiskered  chief  engineer,  a  bald,  jovial 
first  officer,  three  younger  assistants  who  laughed  at 
very  simple  jests  and  chatted  among  themselves. 
Two  passengers  came  aboard  before  the  meal  was 
finished.  They  had  persuaded  the  owner's  agent  in 
London  to  let  them  cross  to  the  French  port  and  so 


110  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

avoid  a  tedious  detour  by  rail  via  Paris.  An  elderly 
man  and  his  wife,  they  had  a  quaint,  old-fashioned 
aspect,  reminding  Blodgett  of  worthy  couples  who 
drove  to  New  England  meeting-houses  on  Sunday 
morning  behind  old  Dobbin.  He  saw  them  again  on 
deck,  in  the  dusk,  as  the  steamer  sailed,  father  with 
a  gray  shawl  pulled  around  his  stooping  shoulders, 
mother  wearing  a  small  round  bonnet  and  a  green  veil. 

By  now  William  had  learned  the  name  of  his  ship, 
the  West  Wales,  and  that  her  port  of  destination  was 
Brest.  A  roundabout  way  to  carry  timber  for  the 
trenches,  he  reflected,  but  it  was  proper  for  a  vessel 
to  keep  her  business  to  herself  in  war-time.  He  joined 
the  captain  on  the  bridge  and  showed  at  once  that  he 
was  competent  to  stand  watch.  His  faith  in  the  Ger 
man  spy  theory  was  already  shaken,  but  his  perplex 
ity  was  increased,  nevertheless.  For  a  short-handed 
ship  the  West  Wales  carried  an  amazingly  large 
crew.  They  had  not  been  visible  when  she  lay  at  the 
pier,  all  these  extra  hands  who  were  now  busied  about 
the  decks,  hatches,  and  winches.  And  there  was  an 
odd  abundance  of  officers,  or  such  seemed  to  be  the 
men  who  appeared  on  the  bridge  from  time  to  time. 
William  was  certain  that  he  had  failed  to  meet  several 
of  them  at  the  supper-table.  Why,  then,  had  he  been 
so  cordially  greeted  as  filling  a  vacant  berth? 

Silently  tramping  to  and  fro,  the  chief  gunner's 
mate  had  a  glimmer  of  comprehension,  for  he  was  no 
fool.  He  slapped  his  knee  and  laughed  aloud.  It  was 
a  chuckle  so  deep  and  hearty  and  enjoyable  that  he 
seemed  to  fetch  it  all  the  way  up  from  his  boots.  All 


THE  QUIET  LIFE 111 

traces  of  melancholia  had  vanished.  The  joke  was  on 
him.  The  quiet  life!  Coxswain  James  Parslow,  the 
little  scoundrel,  had  put  one  over  on  him.  However, 
he  seemed  to  bear  his  faithless  guardian  no  ill-will. 

"Parslow  was  trying  to  humor  me,"  murmured 
William,  "and  he  did  all  of  that.  You  could  n't  call 
this  just  what  the  doctor  advised,  but  I  surely  do  feel 
better  already." 

The  mirthful  monologue  seemed  to  interest  the 
captain  of  the  West  Wales,  who  moved  to  the  wing  of 
the  bridge  and  inquired: 

"Are  we  discovered?  It's  too  late  to  set  you  ashore, 
I  fear,  but  I  hope  you're  going  to  like  the  voyage." 

"Like  it,  sir?"  echoed  the  Yankee  pilgrim.  "I've 
been  eating  my  heart  out  for  a  fling  at  it  ever  since 
we  first  based  at  Queenstown.  The  'hush  stuff'  used 
to  pass  around  among  our  boys,  and  we  heard  all 
about  the  stunts  of  Commander  Hobbs-Seymour  and 
Captain  Arthur  Scott  — 

"My  name  is  Arthur  Scott,"  was  the  quiet  reply, 
spoken  with  a  shade  of  diffidence.  He  laughed  in  his 
turn  as  he  went  on  to  say:  "Coxswain  Parslow  and  I 
were  shipmates  several  years  ago.  As  soon  as  he  had 
told  me  what  you  wanted,  I  signaled  the  Admiralty 
for  permission  to  give  you  a  rating.  Your  own  naval 
headquarters  in  London  was  consulted,  I  presume. 
At  any  rate,  there  was  no  trouble.  They  think  it  use 
ful  to  have  you  see  how  we  do  this  sort  of  thing.  You 
will  be  asked  to  make  a  report  on  it,  I  imagine." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  William  Blodgett,  who 
found  it  hard  to  untangle  his  emotions.  "Was  any- 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


thing  said,  if  you  please,  about  me  being  a  nervous 
derelict?  The  doctor  called  me  names  as  bad  as  that 
and  told  me  to  beat  it  for  scenery  that  was  restful  and 
soothing." 

"  Your  health  was  n't  mentioned.  This  may  turn 
out  to  be  rather  entertaining,  don't  you  know. 
Things  have  been  so  dull  for  the  last  month  that 
we're  due  for  a  shindy." 

"But  those  two  passengers,"  protested  Henry. 
"It  don't  seem  right  to  bunco  them.  They  would  n't 
have  come  if  they  were  wise  to  the  ship." 

"Please  treat  the  lady  with  the  utmost  courtesy," 
replied  Captain  Arthur  Scott.  "She  is  very  sensitive 
and  refined." 

"I  am  a  prize  boob,"  spluttered  the  chief  gunner's 
mate.  "The  old  bean  is  on  a  dead  center  to-night." 

The  elderly  passengers  were  strolling  on  deck  be 
fore  breakfast  next  morning.  Mother  wore  the  green 
veil  and  clung  to  the  arm  of  her  devoted  consort  who 
held  a  tattered  parasol  above  her  head.  It  was  most 
shocking,  but  after  a  brief  promenade  mother  strode 
to  the  rail,  raised  the  veil  with  a  very  large  hand  en 
cased  in  a  cotton  glove,  and  shifted  her  quid  as  she 
spat  a  stream  of  amber  juice  over  the  side. 

"Naughty,  naughty!"  scolded  the  first  officer  as 
he  paused  in  passing.  "And  damned  unladylike,  be 
sides.  Look  here,  Wilkinson,  if  you  can't  remember 
your  manners  I  '11  send  you  back  to  the  galley  and  set 
you  to  peeling  spuds,  you  vulgar,  dissolute  son  of  a 
sea-cook." 

"I  have  labored  with  Maria,"  quavered  the  elderly 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  113 

husband,  clutching  his  hoary  false  whiskers,  "but 
she  chews  and  swears  and  drinks  rum.  I  shall  divorce 
the  hussy." 

The  West  Wales  was  steering  down  Channel,  alone 
and  unprotected,  easy  mark  for  a  prowling  subma 
rine.  One  small  gun  was  mounted  far  aft,  in  the  man 
ner  of  British  merchantmen,  but  it  could  offer  only 
a  futile  defense.  Her  plodding  gait  could  not  be  hur 
ried.  Once  a  friendly  destroyer,  bound  the  same  way, 
veered  close  to  hail  the  bridge  and  ask  questions.  The 
extra  men  of  the  West  Wales' s  crew  had  vanished  be 
low  decks.  She  was  merely  a  tramp  thrashing  along 
to  France.  William  Blodgett  slept  like  a  top  and 
turned  out  with  no  dread  of  the  day's  work.  How  his 
friends  of  the  flotilla  would  envy  him  this  gorgeous 
adventure!  He  was  afloat  in  a  British  "Q-boat,"  a 
mystery  ship,  with  Captain  Arthur  Scott,  R.N., 
whose  exploits  had  been  almost  incredible,  whose 
career  was  one  of  the  most  brilliantly  romantic  in 
modern  naval  warfare.  This  rusty  tramp  of  a  West 
Wales  whose  purpose  was  so  cleverly  disguised  might 
be  the  very  ship  which  had  decoyed  four  German  sub 
marines  to  their  doom.  William  Blodgett  scrutinized 
her  from  bow  to  stern  before  he  reported  for  duty  on 
the  bridge.  Even  to  his  trained  eye  there  were  no  in 
dications  of  hidden  guns,  nothing  that  might  arouse 
the  suspicion  of  a  wolfish  U-boat. 

"And  I  doped  it  last  night  that  these  Britishers 
needed  speeding-up,"  reflected  William.  "They're 
bright.  You'll  have  to  hand  it  to  'em.  This  is  some 
bag  of  tricks," 


114 SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

He  glanced  up  and  saw  the  captain  standing  out 
side  the  chart-room  door.  An  old  cloth  cap  was  pulled 
a  little  over  one  eye.  Sea-stained  gray  trousers  were 
tucked  into  a  pair  of  shabby  boots.  The  blue  jersey 
and  heavy  reefer  harmonized  with  the  picture.  He 
waved  a  hand  in  greeting  and  exclaimed  as  Blodgett 
approached : 

"That  was  a  bit  of  camouflage  last  night  —  about 
my  needing  you  as  a  navigating  officer.  It  may  be 
more  to  your  taste  to  stick  to  your  own  job  of  chief 
gunner's  mate.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Anywhere,  sir,  so  long  as  I  can  have  a  front  seat 
when  the  show  begins." 

"Aye,  but  we  may  knock  about  for  weeks  without 
a  run  for  our  money,"  declared  Captain  Arthur 
Scott,  V.C.  "Fritz  is  not  as  stupid  as  he  looks.  How 
ever,  I'll  see  to  it  that  you  are  set  ashore  in  time  to 
return  to  your  own  ship." 

"I'd  like  to  sign  on  with  you  for  the  rest  of  the 
war,"  said  William.  "The  destroyer  game  is  like 
knitting  socks  for  soldiers  along-side  this  dizzy  per 
formance." 

This  competent  American  Navy  man  had  no  in 
tention  of  loafing  about  as  passenger  or  guest,  al 
though  his  British  shipmates  of  the  enlisted  person 
nel  seemed  to  regard  it  as  an  honor  to  have  him 
aboard.  He  soon  discovered  that  the  resemblance  to 
merchant  seamen  went  no  further  than  their  clothes. 
Many  details  of  naval  routine  were  waived,  but  there 
was  no  real  slackness.  An  order  was  obeyed  on  the 
instant  and  the  watches  were  vigilantly  kept.  It  was 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  115 

a  desperate  service,  with  the  odds  against  survival, 
and  the  crew  had  been  picked  from  among  hundreds 
of  eager  volunteers. 

It  was  revealed  to  William  Blodgett  where  the 
broadside  batteries  of  guns  were  mounted  and  how 
they  were  concealed  behind  blind  ports  and  beneath 
false  hatches.  It  was  true  that  the  West  Wales  carried 
a  cargo  of  timber,  but  the  purpose  was  to  help  keep 
her  afloat  if  she  should  be  shot  to  pieces  by  a  German 
submarine. 

"It's  this  way,"  a  British  gunner  explained  to 
William.  "I  was  with  Captain  Arthur  Scott  in  the 
Pandex,  the  first  Q-boat  he  went  skipper  of.  We  stood 
a  lot  of  poundin'  afore  the  Hun  was  certain  the 
steamer  was  abandoned.  He  shelled  us  cruel,  and  us 
gunners  that  had  stayed  on  board  after  the  fake  mer 
chant  crew  had  quit  her  was  punished  'ard.  The  tim 
ber  in  her  holds  was  all  that  kept  the  old  Pandex  from 
divin'  to  the  bottom." 

"I  get  you,"  replied  Blodgett.  "I  guess  I'll  stay 
aboard  instead  of  takin'  to  a  boat.  I  'm  curious  to  see 
the  finish." 

The  mystery  ship  plodded  out  into  the  Atlantic 
and  wallowed  in  the  long  roll  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 
She  sighted  convoys  of  great  ships  crowded  with 
American  troops  bound  in  to  France,  with  the  de 
stroyers  playing  about  them  like  shepherd  dogs.  Her 
wireless  picked  up  reports  of  U-boats  playing  havoc 
with  the  merchant  shipping  along  the  converging 
courses  that  led  to  the  ports  of  the  Channel  and  the 
Irish  Sea.  The  West  Wales  sent  out  no  radio  messages. 


116  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Her  business  was  her  own  and  she  wandered  the  high 
seas  in  solitary  and  secretive  fashion.  One  day  slid 
into  another  and  the  wicked  winter  winds  were  lulled 
and  the  softness  of  spring  was  in  the  bright  air.  Wil 
liam  Blodgett  felt  no  sense  of  responsibility.  He 
drilled  with  a  gun  crew,  which  was  exercise  enough  to 
keep  his  appetite  on  edge,  and  slept  his  eight  hours 
on  end.  The  lazy  motion  of  the  broad-beamed  tramp 
lulled  him  as  if  he  were  in  a  cradle.  It  was  unlike  the 
sudden,  erratic  twists  and  plunges  of  a  destroyer. 
And  what  also  soothed  him  was  the  fact  that  there 
was  no  destination  to  be  hurrying  toward  at  twenty- 
five  knots,  or  troop  ships  to  be  searched  for  at  some 
vague  rendezvous  a  thousand  miles  off  shore.  In 
short,  William  Blodgett  had  found  a  life  that  soothed 
and  healed  his  nerves. 

After  a  fortnight  of  it,  however,  he  began  to  fidget 
with  impatience.  His  shipmates  were  made  of  im 
perturbable  stuff.  They  took  each  day  as  it  came  and 
hoped  for  action,  but  seemed  wholly  unruffled.  They 
had  endured  three  years  of  war  in  this  same  manner, 
reflected  William,  and  would  continue  to  carry  on 
until  the  last  man  died  in  his  tracks.  He  was  seated 
upon  a  hatch,  his  pipe  between  his  teeth,  his  mind 
turning  over  such  thoughts  as  these  when  there 
floated  down  from  the  bridge  the  bland  and  pleasant 
voice  of  Captain  Arthur  Scott: 

"All  hands  to  quarters!  Lively,  lads!  Old  Fritz 
has  come  up  to  have  a  look  at  us.  Three  points  off 
the  port  bow." 

There  was  no  confusion  aboard  the  West  Wales. 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  117 

Some  of  the  men  vanished  to  their  stations  below 
decks  and  William  Blodgett  was  about  to  follow 
them,  but  the  captain  called  him  to  say : 

"Better  not  miss  the  first  act.  It  may  be  amusing. 
Stay  in  one  of  the  cabins  and  watch  it  through  a 
window.  Plenty  of  time  before  you  will  be  needed 
at  your  gun.  It  may  be  a  rotten  poor  show,  at  that. 
Some  of  them  are,  you  know.  We  can't  always  pull 
it  off/' 

The  submarine  had  broken  water  and  was  moving 
on  the  surface  at  a  speed  considerably  faster  than 
that  of  the  sluggish  West  Wales.  They  were  perhaps 
five  thousand  yards  apart.  Presently  the  smoke 
gushed  thick  and  black  from  the  steamer's  funnel  and 
her  hull  trembled  to  the  increased  vibration  of  the 
engines.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  her  crowd  on  steam  and 
attempt  to  escape.  Instead  of  the  naval  discipline 
which  had  ruled  the  call  to  quarters,  one  might  have 
beheld  the  excitement  natural  to  a  merchant  crew 
in  these  tragic  circumstances,  men  courageous,  but 
more  or  less  disorderly.  Two  gunners  were  popping 
away  with  the  small  piece  mounted  far  astern,  but 
the  submarine  veered  to  withdraw  beyond  range  and 
the  shells  dropped  harmlessly.  The  two  passengers  of 
the  West  Wales  paraded  the  deck  of  the  superstruc 
ture  and  displayed  emotions  of  terror  and  dismay. 
The  elderly  husband  was  trying  to  console  Maria, 
who  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  green  veil  and  showed 
signs  of  hysteria.  She  was  heard  to  remark  in  hoarse 
accents  that  she'd  be  eternally  condemned  before 
she  would  again  submit  to  be  togged  out  in  a  blankety 


118  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

female  riggin'  that  made  a  British  sailor  feel  like  a 
blighted  ass. 

There  was  to  be  no  wasting  torpedoes  on  this  dingy 
tramp  steamer.  The  submarine  opened  fire  at  its  own 
deliberately  chosen  distance  and  began  to  shell  the 
target.  It  was  murderous.  The  sea  was  so  smooth  that 
the  U-boat's  deck  was  a  stable  gun-platform.  A  few 
sighting  shots  and  then  the  projectiles  began  to  rip 
through  the  rusty  plates  of  the  West  Wales.  They 
killed  and  wounded  men  who  were  hidden  below,  but 
there  came  up  no  sound  of  groans,  no  calling  for  help. 
They  took  it  as  it  came  and  grimly  bided  their  time. 
This  was  how  they  played  the  game  in  a  Q-boat.  A 
shell  shattered  a  wing  of  the  bridge  and  Captain 
Arthur  Scott  shifted  to  the  roof  of  the  chart-house. 
He  was  smiling  as  he  held  the  glasses  to  his  eyes  and 
chatted  with  his  officers. 

With  a  crash  and  a  spreading  cloud  of  soot  the 
funnel  of  the  ship  crumpled  up  and  fell  over  the 
side  while  the  bits  of  shrapnel  spattered  the  steel 
deck-houses.  That  estimable  woman,  Maria,  clapped 
a  hand  to  her  leg,  pulled  up  her  skirts,  and  announced 
her  hope  that  the  Hun  what  did  such  things  to  a 
helpless  lady  would  sizzle  in  hell  for  a  million  years. 
William  Blodgett  was  awaiting  orders  when  Captain 
Arthur  Scott  touched  his  arm  and  murmured: 

"  Come  along  with  me,  if  you  like.  It 's  time  to  get 
the  boats  away.  I  stay  behind,  of  course.  My  first 
officer  plays  the  part  of  the  merchant  skipper.  He 
looks  the  part,  I  fancy." 

William  nodded  assent  and  followed  Captain  Scott 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  119 

down  an  iron  staircase  inside  the  ship.  They  came 
to  the  false  deck  or  floor  which  had  been  built  in 
the  cargo  holds,  many  feet  above  the  water-line. 
These  spaces  were  shadowy,  but  some  light  filtered 
through  bull's-eyes  set  in  the  deck  above,  and  there 
were  a  few  bulb  lamps  carefully  screened.  William 
Blodgett  joined  his  own  group  of  British  comrades 
and  perceived  that  he  was  needed,  for  two  of  them 
had  been  struck  down  by  a  shell  which  raked  a  bulk 
head.  Captain  Scott  stood  at  the  eye-piece  of  a  peri 
scope  whose  tube  ran  up  through  the  deck  and  was 
concealed  in  a  ventilator.  He  was  able  to  sweep  the 
sea  and  obtain  accurate  vision  with  no  chance  of  dis 
closure. 

They  waited  in  silence,  these  groups  of  British  sea 
men,  shaking  dice  with  death.  It  was  not  long  before 
they  heard  the  tramp  of  feet  above  them,  the  shout 
ing  of  orders,  the  creak  of  davits,  the  whine  of  the 
blocks  through  the  falls,  and  then  the  bump  and 
scrape  of  the  ship's  boats  as  they  swung  outboard 
from  the  chocks  and  one  by  one  were  lowered  to  the 
water.  There  was  the  crash  of  a  shell,  cries  of  pain, 
and  shouts  for  help.  At  his  observation  post  Captain 
Arthur  Scott  exclaimed,  with  bitter  intensity: 

"Smashed  a  boat  after  it  got  clear  of  the  ship,  the 
rotters!  They  saw  the  crew  was  trying  to  abandon 
her." 

William  Blodgett's  eyes  were  blazing  and  he  had 
stripped  off  his  shirt.  Bare  to  the  waist,  his  powerful 
arms  tattooed  with  a  foul  anchor  and  the  eagle  above 
a  starry  shield,  he  was  superbly  a  gunner's  mate  of 


120 SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  American  Navy  which  had  inherited  the  tradi 
tions  of  Paul  Jones,  of  Isaac  Hull,  of  Farragut  and 
Dewey.  Ancient  grudges  forgotten,  he  was  glad  and 
proud  to  be  one  of  a  British  gun  crew  in  action 
against  a  detestable  foe.  It  seemed  to  him  right  and 
proper  that  they  should  battle  together  for  the  free 
dom  of  the  seas. 

The  ship  was  now  deserted  by  the  thirty-odd 
men  who  comprised  her  normal  crew  as  a  merchant 
steamer.  You  may  be  sure  that  the  commander  of 
the  German  submarine  had  counted  them  as  they 
scrambled  into  the  boats.  Maria  and  her  husband 
had  safely  disembarked  and  Captain  Scott  watched 
them  as  they  huddled  in  the  stern  of  the  yawl.  The 
West  Wales  floated  as  a  shattered  derelict.  Her  boats 
pulled  away  hastily  to  avoid  shelling  by  the  subma 
rine.  Their  oars  splashed  awkwardly.  Progress  was 
slow  and  wavering.  They  appeared  to  be  making 
frantic  exertions  and  yet  it  was  so  crab-fashion  that 
the  distance  from  the  steamer  increased  very  slowly. 
It  was  plausible  enough,  however,  this  clumsy,  panic- 
stricken  exodus  of  a  crew  of  merchant  sailors  in  terror 
of  their  lives. 

The  submarine  turned  and  ran  closer  after  pro 
longed  hesitation.  To  finish  the  job  by  sinking  the 
West  Wales  as  soon  as  possible  was  the  correct  pro 
cedure.  And  the  German  commander's  orders  were 
to  interrogate  the  captain  of  the  steamer  whenever 
feasible  and  also  to  loot  any  stores  which  might  be 
saved  before  sending  her  to  the  bottom.  This  was  not 
to  be  done  rashly.  The  verdammte  Englanders  had  a 


THE  QUIET  LIFE 


nasty  trick  of  inventing  surprises.  They  fought  un 
fairly,  not  in  the  least  like  officers  and  gentlemen  of 
the  Imperial  German  Navy. 

Running  in  to  point-blank  range,  the  U-boat  care 
fully  and  slowly  shelled  the  West  Wales.  It  was  in 
tended  to  be  a  series  of  death-strokes,  as  well  as  by 
way  of  precaution,  a  hurricane  of  explosives  in  which 
no  men  could  live  should  they  have  remained  aboard 
in  hiding. 

"The  quiet  life,"  muttered  William  Blodgett  at 
his  post  between  decks.  "If  the  doctor  could  see  me 
now!  But  I'm  darn  sure  I  never  felt  in  better  health." 

The  wicked  shells  were  rinding  these  indomitable 
gunners.  As  they  fell,  they  were  carried  to  one  side. 
Below  them  the  water  was  gurgling  into  the  holds. 
The  steamer  was  in  the  last  extremity.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  was  about  to  carry  these  men  down  with 
her.  The  woodwork  had  caught  fire  and  was  filling  the 
space  with  choking  smoke.  The  heat  became  stifling. 
The  steel  plates  beneath  their  feet  were  scorching 
their  shoes.  They  gasped  for  breath.  And  still  the  dy 
ing  ship  was  shelled  and  men  were  torn  and  slain  be 
side  their  guns.  But  there  were  still  gunners  enough 
to  work  them. 

"Glad  you  joined  the  party,  Yank?"  laughed  a 
brawny  sight-setter  who  stood  beside  William  Blod 
gett. 

"It's  a  real  pleasure  to  bear  a  hand,"  was  the  po 
lite  response. 

It  was  touching  to  watch  them  turn  for  a  glimpse 
of  their  skipper,  Captain  Arthur  Scott,  V.C.,  and  to 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


note  how  it  heartened  them  when  he  sang  out  a 
cheery  word  or  two  or  passed  from  gun  to  gun,  easy, 
cool,  with  that  jauntily  boyish  demeanor  of  his.  It 
was  all  right  as  long  as  he  was  willing  to  stand  the 
gaff.  A  tough  billet  to  chew,  but  a  Q-boat  was  n't  all 
beer  and  skittles.  At  last  the  captain  became  actually 
excited  as  he  sang  out: 

"By  Jove,  the  beggar  has  swallowed  the  hook!  I 
say!  Steady,  all!  You  will  have  to  be  mauled  only  a 
bit  longer.  He  is  closing  in,  and  our  boats  are  fooling 
him  nicely.  Awfully  clever!  Perfectly  ripping!" 

Yes,  the  U-boat  was  no  longer  suspicious.  Her  deck 
and  conning  tower  exposed,  she  was  moving  slowly  to 
intercept  the  boats  from  the  West  Wales.  They  were 
huddling  close  together,  and  the  seamen  were  at  their 
oars.  Curiously  enough,  the  more  they  floundered  in 
their  effort  to  obey  the  instructions  shouted  from  the 
submarine,  the  nearer  they  drew  to  the  side  of  the 
abandoned  steamer.  It  was  imperceptible  to  the  Ger 
man  officers  who  had  climbed  out  upon  the  subma 
rine's  deck.  They  cursed  the  boats  for  their  lubberly 
awkwardness  and  bawled  questions  at  the  skipper, 
that  jovial,  bald-headed  commander  in  the  British 
Navy  who  posed  so  well  as  a  merchant  mariner.  He 
in  turn  told  his  men  to  handle  their  oars  less  like  a  lot 
of  cursed  swabs,  and  they  meekly  yanked  with  might 
and  main. 

It  was  an  absurd  muddle,  but  somehow  the  posi 
tion  of  the  submarine  became  so  altered  that  she  lay 
broadside  on  no  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards  from 
the  pitiful  wreck  of  the  deserted  West  Wales.  The 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  123 

German  commander  glanced  up  and  felt  a  premoni 
tion  of  danger,  or  so  it  appeared,  for  he  yelled  down 
the  hatch  to  go  ahead  on  the  engines.  He  had  no 
more  than  spoken  than  the  false  ports  of  the  mystery 
ship  dropped  with  a  mighty  clangor.  So  many  hinged 
doors  cut  into  the  side,  they  were  released  at  a  word 
from  Captain  Arthur  Scott.  As  they  dropped  they 
revealed  the  White  Ensign  of  the  British  Navy.  It 
had  been  painted  on  the  inside  of  each  of  these  long, 
hinged  ports.  It  confronted  the  enemy  in  this  splen 
didly  dramatic  moment.  The  West  Wales  thereby 
proclaimed  herself  as  a  naval  vessel  about  to  engage 
with  her  battle-flag  displayed  as  the  law  and  the 
courtesy  of  the  sea  duly  required. 

The  daylight  flooded  into  the  between-deck  spaces 
of  the  West  Wales  and  gleamed  and  glinted  on  a 
powerful  battery  of  five-inch  guns.  Behind  them 
crouched  the  remnants  of  their  British  crews,  and  in 
command  of  one  of  them  was  a  brawny  man  of  mid 
dle  age  whose  right  arm  was  tattooed  with  the  eagle 
above  a  starry  shield.  His  deep  voice  led  the  cheer 
which  rolled  fore  and  aft,  a  cheer  that  rang  out  an  in 
stant  before  the  five-inch  battery  roared  in  unison.  It 
was  a  blasting  broadside,  and  it  smote  the  submarine 
as  one  might  smash  an  egg  with  a  sledgehammer.  One 
broadside  only!  The  U-boat  was  instantaneously 
obliterated.  Where  she  had  been  was  a  tumult  of 
dirty  water  and  a  few  bits  of  something  or  other.  The 
incident  was  closed.  Captain  Arthur  Scott  had  added 
another  one  to  his  score. 

"Jolly  well  done,"  said  he,  with  a  beaming  face; 


124  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"but  it  seems  to  me  that  this  wretched  steamer  is 
foundering." 

This  was  indubitably  the  fact.  The  West  Wales  had 
given  up  the  ghost  when  the  explosion  of  those  five- 
inch  guns  simply  pulled  her  shattered  plates  apart. 
She  vanished  from  the  surface  in  a  slow  and  gentle 
manner  just  as  the  British  gunners  were  hoisting  their 
wounded  out  through  the  open  ports.  Most  of  them 
were  saved  by  the  boats  which  hastened  to  the  rescue 
and  it  was  to  be  observed  that  the  oars  now  rose  and 
fell  with  the  trained  precision  of  British  naval  sea 
men.  Upon  the  tranquil  sea  floated  four  boats, 
crowded  to  the  gunwales,  and  there  was  never  a  trace 
of  hostile  submarine  or  rusty  tramp  steamer.  Oblivi 
ous  of  wounds  and  discomforts,  these  castaways  were 
in  the  most  blithesome  spirits  and  they  sang  as  they 
baled  and  plied  the  oars.  The  two  elderly  passengers 
were  most  undignified.  Father  plucked  off  his  white 
whiskers  and  smashed  his  stiff  hat  over  the  head  of 
Maria  who  was  chucking  William  Blodgett  under  the 
chin  and  swearing  that  her  'eart  beat  true  to  'im,  but 
she'd  love  him  more  if  'e'd  set  up  the  gin  and  bitters 
for  a  lady  that  had  a  perishin'  thirst. 

"Not  that  but  we  fight  for  glory  and  old  England, 
my  dear,"  added  Maria,  "but  there's  a  thousand 
quid  prize  money  for  every  blinkin'  U-boat  actually 
destroyed.  And  the  Admiralty  won't  argify  over  this 
bit  o'  work.  You  get  your  bloomin'  share,  Yank,  for 
you  served  under  Captain  Arthur  Scott,  V.C.,  apd 
you  scuppered  the  Hun  the  same  as  the  rest  of  us." 

A  British  patrol  boat  picked  them  up  next  morn- 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  125 

ing.  She  was  bound  in  to  a  Channel  port  where  Wil 
liam  Blodgett,  as  he  puzzled  over  the  problem,  dis 
covered  that  he  would  be  a  long  distance  from 
Queenstown.  He  had  signed  on  in  the  hope  of  earn 
ing  a  month's  wages,  but  he  was  still  shy  of  money 
and  ten  days  of  liberty  remained  on  his  hands.  It  was 
Captain  Arthur  Scott  who  unwittingly  came  to  the 
rescue. 

"There  will  be  some  delay  in  awarding  the  prize 
money  —  red-tape  and  so  on  —  and  you  may  be 
transferred  or  sent  home  or  something  of  the  sort.  If 
you  don't  mind,  I  shall  be  frightfully  pleased  if  you 
will  let  me  advance  your  share  before  we  part." 

"I  did  n't  intend  to  figure  in  it,"  protested  Henry. 
"I  had  a  fine  trip,  sir,  and  was  amply  repaid." 

"But  the  Admiralty  will  compel  you  to  take  it,  my 
dear  man.  You  can't  escape  it,  really.  Prize  money  is 
one  of  the  ancient  institutions  of  the  Royal  Navy, 
though  I  can't  understand  why  they  don't  abolish  it, 
I'm  sure." 

"Then  if  it's  going  to  be  forced  on  me,  I'd  rather 
take  it  now  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  sir.  I  can't  af 
ford  to  get  in  trouble  with  the  Admiralty."  , 

"Very  good,"  smiled  Captain  Arthur  Scott  as  they 
shook  hands.  "Your  friends  in  the  destroyer  will  be 
rather  pleased  over  your  adventure,  won't  they?" 

"They'll  never  learn  it  from  me!"  cried  William  in 
genuine  alarm. 

Two  days  after  this  he  reached  Queenstown  and 
went  straightway  aboard  his  ship.  The  doctor  was  on 
deck  and  he  frowned  severely  as  he  exclaimed: 


126  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Thirty  days'  leave,  Blodgett?  How  about  it? 
What  are  you  doing  aboard?" 

"I  was  restored  to  health,  sir,  and  so  reported  for 
duty." 

"You  do  look  like  yourself,"  was  the  doctor's  ver 
dict.  "What  did  it?" 

"The  quiet  life,  sir,  and  being  where  there  was  no 
excitement  —  except  maybe  in  spots." 

"How  are  your  nerves?  All  over  the  jumps?" 

"Yes,  sir.  It  was  the  change  of  occupation." 

"Cows  and  pigs  and  cabbages,  eh?" 

"In  West  Wales  it  was,  sir,  with  some  English 
friends  of  mine,"  answered  William  Christian  Blod 
gett,  looking  the  doctor  straight  in  the  eye.  "We 
wore  old  clothes  and  sort  of  tramped  it  over  the  road 
without  bein'  bound  anywhere  in  particular." 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE 

"BULL"  MADDOCK  had  enlisted  in  the  Navy  for 
private  and  personal  reasons  which  had  nothing  to 
do  with  making  the  world  safe  for  democracy.  He  had 
been  a  fireman  in  an  American  liner  between  New 
York  and  Liverpool,  a  grimy  slave  of  the  slice-bar 
and  shovel  who  sweated  for  wages  which  enabled  him 
to  get  drunk  and  stay  so  while  in  port.  He  was  trou 
bled  by  no  wider  ambition  than  this.  When  stripped 
to  the  waist  in  the  stoke-hole,  the  brawn  of  him  was 
revealed  as  superb,  and  youth  also  was  in  his  favor, 
for  which  reasons  this  sodden  existence  had  not  cor 
roded  his  vigor.  He  was  a  surly,  silent  brute  with  a 
temper  which  was  apt  to  flare  wickedly  when  fed 
with  cheap  whiskey.  There  were  women  of  the  water 
front  who  admired  his  strength  and  thought  him 
good  to  look  at,  and  more  than  one  had  been  fond  of 
him  even  after  his  money  was  gone. 

It  was  because  of  a  girl  that  "Bull"  Maddock 
swung  his  fist  to  the  jaw  of  the  mate  of  a  Swedish 
cargo  boat.  The  mate  crumpled  under  the  table  of  the 
back  room  of  the  Front  Street  saloon,  and  it  was  the 
concerted  opinion  of  the  spectators,  versed  in  such 
matters,  that  the  fireman  had  croaked  him.  At  any 
rate,  the  mariner  from  Sweden  remained  inert  so 
long  after  the  count  of  ten  that  Maddock  was  strongly 
advised  to  beat  it.  He  had  been  justified,  no  doubt, 
in  showing  the  meddlesome  square-head  where  he  got 


128  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

off,  but  breaking  his  neck  was  a  trifle  far-fetched. 
It  was  n't  usually  done,  even  in  Front  Street 
circles. 

The  police  knew  "Bull"  Maddock  quite  inti 
mately.  He  had  made  an  impression  upon  as  many  as 
four  of  them  who  were  required  to  put  him  aboard 
the  patrol  wagon  while  ashore  from  a  previous  voy 
age.  Here  was  an  episode,  however,  which  appeared 
to  be  so  much  more  serious  that  he  instantly  con 
cluded  to  let  his  ship  sail  without  him.  With  what  was 
left  of  his  wages  he  fled  as  far  as  Boston  and  then  his 
purpose  wavered.  They  would  hunt  for  him  in  the 
Atlantic  ports,  raking  the  wharves,  the  steamers 
about  to  sail,  and  the  sailors'  boarding-houses.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  to  turn  inland.  All  he  knew  was 
the  sea  and  its  bitter  toil. 

Steering  an  aimless  course,  he  wandered  past  a 
Navy  recruiting  booth  on  Boston  Common  and 
halted  while  a  spruce  boatswain's  mate  appealed  to 
the  crowd  in  words  of  fiery  eloquence.  There  was  no 
responsive  glow  in  the  heart  of  "Bull"  Maddock, 
who  stood  there,  a  hulking,  glowering  figure  tor 
mented  by  a  raging  thirst.  Presently  he  roughly 
shouldered  his  way  to  the  front  and  told  the  yeoman 
that  he  was  ready  to  sign  on.  The  crowd  cheered. 
Here  was  the  kind  of  recruit  to  put  a  crimp  in  the 
Huns.  He  would  eat  'em  alive. 

The  Navy  was  sorely  in  need  of  seasoned  firemen, 
and  the  oratorical  boatswain's  mate  jumped  down 
to  slap  Maddock  on  the  back  and  tell  him  he  was 
the  real  stuff.  The  fugitive  grunted  and  pulled  out 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  129 

a  packet  of  discharges  from  former  ships.  He  was 
proud  of  them,  for  although  his  behavior  might  be 
outrageous  ashore  his  work  at  sea  had  been  certified 
as  excellent  by  one  chief  engineer  after  another.  He 
could  make  steam  and  hold  it  in  all  weathers.  This 
was  enough. 

He  had  intended  to  enlist  under  a  false  name,  but 
his  wits  were  muddled,  and  having  exhibited  his  dis 
charges  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  sign  as  James  J. 
Maddock,  with  his  next  of  kin  an  old  mother  of  whose 
whereabouts  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea.  The  re 
cruiting  booth  snatched  him  into  the  service  as  a 
prize  and  hustled  him  over  to  the  office  to  be  exam 
ined  and  sworn  in.  For  the  time  he  had  lost  volition. 
He  went  dumbly  in  the  hope  of  escaping  the  police 
and  the  electric  chair.  It  was  any  port  in  a  storm,  and 
he  was  on  a  lee  shore. 

The  Navy  doctor  surveyed  this  strapping  fireman, 
thumped  him  with  a  gloating  air,  and  perceived  that 
he  was  physically  flawless,  barring  ragged  nerves  and 
recent  saturation  with  bad  booze.  While  awaiting 
further  orders  "Bull"  Maddock  scanned  the  latest 
New  York  newspapers  with  painful  attention,  but 
failed  to  find  any  mention  of  the  murder  of  the  mate 
of  a  Swedish  merchant  steamer  in  the  back  room  of  a 
Front  Street  saloon.  This  seemed  odd.  Homicide  and 
manslaughter  were  routine  occurrences  in  the  surging 
metropolis,  but  the  reporters  never  passed  them  by. 
It  filtered  into  the  mind  of  the  sullen  recruit  that  pos 
sibly  he  had  failed  to  break  the  neck  of  the  square 
head  who  had  tried  to  steal  his  girl.  Instead  of  feeling 


130  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

gratitude  for  his  deliverance,  Maddock  was  indig 
nant.  He  swore  vengeance  against  the  unfortunate 
mate  for  having  tricked  him. 

"The  big  stiff!  Look  what  he  let  me  in  for!"  he 
muttered  to  himself.  "This  fool  Navy  has  gone  and 
pinched  me  and  I  can't  get  out.  And  a  guy  in  uniform 
can't  get  a  drink  nowhere,  not  if  he's  perishin'  for  it. 
If  I  ever  meet  that  Swede  I  '11  hit  him  twice  and  make 
sure  he  stays  out." 

Disconsolately  and  as  docile  as  a  sheep,  Maddock 
was  passed  along  from  one  officer  to  another  until  he 
came  to  rest  in  a  navy-yard  barracks.  He  was  accus 
tomed  to  obey  men  who  wore  blue  uniforms  and  brass 
buttons  in  the  merchant  marine,  but  he  had  been  his 
own  master  in  port.  Now  he  was  a  prisoner,  with 
every  hour  of  the  night  and  day  to  be  accounted  for, 
and  punishment  swift  and  stern  awaiting  the  small 
est  lapse  of  duty.  Afraid  to  show  how  much  he  loathed 
the  prospect,  but  inwardly  rebellious,  he  had  nothing 
to  say  to  the  other  men,  who  agreed  that  he  was  a 
hard  guy  and  had  better  be  left  alone. 

A  few  days  in  barracks  and  "Bull"  Maddock 
looked  most  unlike  the  drunken  vagabond  who  had 
skulked  into  Boston.  His  eye  was  clear,  his  hand 
steady,  and  he  ate  like  a  man  with  a  healthy  appe 
tite.  Cleanliness  was  a  luxury  which  he  had  never 
known  before.  The  Navy  compelled  him  to  bathe  and 
shave  and  wear  fresh  clothes.  It  provided  him  with 
immaculate  living  quarters  and  fed  him  with  the 
most  scrupulous  care.  In  his  own  experience  a  marine 
fireman  was  treated  like  a  dog.  This  was  all  amaz- 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  131 

ingly  different.  It  did  not  reconcile  him  to  his  destiny, 
but  it  was  good  for  him  nevertheless. 

He  was  assigned  to  hard  labor,  trimming  coal  on 
the  docks  and  firing  a  stationary  boiler,  and  he  did  it 
easily,  with  contempt  for  the  recruits  of  softer  fiber 
who  nursed  blistered  hands  and  aching  backs.  No 
liberty  was  granted  him  and  he  abandoned  all  hope 
of  getting  drunk.  At  length  an  officer  came  to  his 
name  on  a  typewritten  list  and  checked  it  with  a  pen 
cil  as  he  said  to  his  assistant: 

"Maddock,  James  J.  —  send  him  to  the  Albacore 
with  that  draft  of  Reserves.  They  need  him.  Know 
him  by  sight,  do  you?" 

"Yes.  He's  a  bear.  I  thought  we'd  have  to  treat 
him  rough,  but  he  has  made  no  trouble  so  far.  A 
course  of  fresh  air  and  exercise  has  made  him  as  fit  as 
a  fiddle." 

"  Good !  The  skipper  of  the  Albacore  ought  to  thank 
us.  He  will  be  sure  of  one  real  husky  in  the  black 
gang.  I  can't  say  I  envy  Lieutenant- Commander 
Lester  Duncan  that  job  of  his  —  sailing  for  France  in 
a  fancy  yacht  with  a  crew  of  cheerful  greenhorns." 

"Duncan  likes  it.  He's  as  happy  as  a  kid  with  a 
new  toy,  although  he  is  the  only  regular  officer  in 
the  outfit.  His  navigator  was  chief  clerk  to  the  presi 
dent  of  a  gas  company  and  the  executive  manufac 
tured  plumbers'  supplies." 

"And  the  yacht  is  just  slinging  her  guns  aboard. 
They  are  all  sawing  and  hammering  and  ripping 
things  out  like  mad  —  the  whole  crew  —  with  orders 
to  clear  for  sea  to-morrow  night." 


132  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"France  needs  more  ships  to  keep  Fritz  under," 
said  the  other,  "so  we'll  have  to  shove  along  what 
ever  is  handy." 

This  was  how  "Bull"  Haddock  happened  to  shoul 
der  his  canvas  bag  and  march  aboard  the  shapely, 
sea-going  yacht  which  had  been  converted  into  a  war 
vessel  at  such  exceedingly  short  notice.  He  reported 
to  a  harrassed  young  engineer  officer  who  sent  him  to 
join  the  bluejackets  coaling  ship.  It  was  odd  company 
for  Maddock  and  he  felt  bewildered.  One  of  these  en 
listed  men  had  been  captain  of  a  Yale  eleven,  another 
was  the  son  of  a  railroad  magnate,  as  casual  remarks 
disclosed,  and  a  third  referred  to  a  famous  rear-ad 
miral  as  "good  old  dad."  They  greeted  the  frowning 
"Bull"  Maddock  with  affable  good-nature,  but  he 
was  suspicious  and  aloof.  It  was  a  bug-house  per 
formance,  he  reflected,  to  take  a  ship  to  sea  with  a 
bunch  of  "'rah!  'rah"  boys  and  amachoors  that  had 
never  been  up  against  a  he-man's  game. 

The  Navy  has  a  trick  of  getting  things  done  some 
how,  and  the  Albacore  went  to  sea  next  night  with 
her  undaunted  crew  still  ripping  out  partitions, 
boarding  up  windows,  and  setting  bunks  in  place. 
Their  spirits  were  jubilant  because  they  were  bound 
across  to  hunt  submarines.  It  was  in  the  month  of 
August  and  heavy  weather  seemed  unlikely.  The 
transformed  yacht,  built  for  ocean  cruising,  laid  a 
course  for  the  Azores  as  a  port  of  call,  and  put  the 
miles  behind  her  with  an  easy  stride. 

His  watches  in  the  fire-room  were  mere  play  for 
"Bull"  Maddock,  who  had  stoked  the  ravening  fur- 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  133 

naces  of  liners  driven  at  top  speed,  when  men  dropped 
in  their  tracks  and  were  dragged  or  kicked  aside.  It 
was  an  inhuman  trade,  as  he  knew  it,  with  little  sym 
pathy  for  the  poor  devils  who  could  not  stand  the 
pace.  This  was  a  scratch  crew  hastily  mustered,  these 
eighty-odd  men  in  the  Albacore,  and  among  "Bull" 
Haddock's  mates  below  decks  only  two  or  three  were 
trained  Navy  stokers.  Toward  the  others  his  attitude 
was  calloused,  unfeeling,  at  times  openly  derisive. 
Seasickness  afflicted  them,  and  when,  with  a  following 
breeze,  the  heat  rose  to  a  hundred  and  twenty  or  thirty 
degrees  they  wilted  helplessly  and  had  to  be  revived. 

"Bull"  Maddock,  bare  to  the  waist  and  hard  as 
nails,  a  blackened  towel  around  his  neck,  swigged 
gallons  of  oatmeal  water,  and  snarled  from  a  corner 
of  his  mouth: 

"That's  right.  Lay  down  and  quit.  What  did  you 
come  to  sea  for,  Willie?  Curl  up  like  a  dog,  uh?  Watch 
your  gauge.  Droppin'  again.  You  could  n't  fire  a 
coffee-pot." 

He  seemed  to  cherish  a  particular  dislike  for  a 
plucky  stripling  of  the  Naval  Reserve  whose  name 
was  Spencer  Lucas.  The  dizzy  heat,  the  smell  of  the 
bilges,  the  erratic  motion  of  the  floor  were  almost 
more  than  he  could  endure,  but  he  never  missed  a 
watch  and  swore  to  qualify  as  a  fireman  if  it  killed 
him.  He  was  a  tall,  shy  youth,  with  a  manner  ex 
cessively  polite,  who  had  been  studying  for  his  Ph.D. 
at  a  Western  university.  He  was  so  much  the  gentle 
man  that  "Bull"  Maddock  mistook  his  courtesy  for 
cowardice  and  considered  him  an  easy  mark. 


134  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

At  length  Mr.  Spencer  Lucas  lost  his  temper  and 
smote  Maddock  over  the  head  with  a  shovel.  The 
weapon  bounced  from  the  skull  of  the  toughened 
warrior,  who  staggered  back  and  burned  his  arm 
against  a  furnace  door.  This  annoyed  him  and  he 
slapped  Mr.  Spencer  Lucas,  who  sprawled  on  his 
face  at  a  distance  of  some  ten  feet  from  the  spot. 
It  was  the  judgment  of  the  machinist's  mate  who 
interfered  that  if  Maddock  had  soaked  him  with  a 
solid  punch  the  lad  would  have  been  driven  through 
the  side  of  the  ship.  The  engineer  officer  strongly  ob 
jected  to  locking  them  up  and  leaving  his  force  short- 
handed,  so  Lieutenant-Commander  Lester  Duncan 
haled  them  on  deck  at  mast  next  morning  to  in 
flict  deferred  penalties  and  likewise  to  get  better 
acquainted  with  the  unruly  Maddock,  James  J., 
fireman  first  class. 

The  skipper  of  the  Albacore  had  been  coxswain 
of  an  Annapolis  crew  which  may  indicate  that  he 
was  no  six-foot  hero.  To  his  friends  he  was  known  as 
"Dusty"  Duncan  and  the  nickname  was  highly 
meritorious.  Quick  at  decisions,  jauntily  cool  in  a 
crisis,  he  was  an  excellent  type  of  officer  for  the  hair- 
trigger  game  of  exterminating  hostile  submarines  or 
guarding  a  convoy.  When  he  twisted  an  end  of  his 
little  black  mustache  and  suavely  gave  an  order, 
there  was  obedience  hearty  and  implicit.  To  sail 
with  "Dusty"  Duncan  meant  something  doing. 

To  the  quarter-deck  trooped  the  culprits,  big 
"Bull"  Maddock  and  the  scholarly  Spencer  Lucas, 
almost  a  Ph.D.,  with  two  other  firemen  and  a  coal- 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  135 

passer  as  witnesses.  They  were  trim  and  clean,  of 
course,  but  the  grime  was  never  quite  removed  from 
beneath  the  eyes  of  the  "underground  savages," 
and  it  lay  like  dark  shadows,  giving  this  group  a 
wearied  and  melancholy  air.  The  case  of  Spencer 
Lucas  was  easily  disposed  of.  He  had  been  provoked 
to  chastise  his  tormenter  with  a  shovel.  The  pro 
vocation  was  clear.  But  he  could  not  be  permitted 
to  take  the  law  into  his  own  hands  and,  for  the  sake 
of  discipline,  he  would  have  to  suffer  loss  of  pay  and 
liberty.  The  officer  of  the  deck  court  made  it  as  mild 
as  possible.  In  the  same  circumstances  he  would 
have  been  tempted  to  floor  Maddock  with  a  slice-bar. 

The  lieutenant-commander's  face  hardened  when 
the  stalwart  bully  confronted  him.  There  was  in 
solence  in  the  man's  bearing,  smouldering  hatred 
of  authority.  Duncan  read  the  symptoms.  Maddock 
was  unaccustomed  to  decent  treatment.  Until  he 
entered  the  Navy  he  had  been  handled  as  a  brute 
who  must  be  kept  under.  Duncan  surmised  that  there 
was  a  spark  of  manliness  in  him,  that  the  soul  could 
not  be  wholly  extinguished.  His  features  no  longer 
clouded  by  dissipation,  "Bull"  Maddock  appeared 
to  be  something  better  than  a  powerful  animal. 
There  was  stubborn  courage  in  the  bold  chin  and 
straight  mouth,  and  the  gray  eyes  were  rather  can 
did  than  shifty.  The  gleam  in  them  reminded  Dun 
can  of  a  good  dog  spoiled  by  mishandling.  He  spoke 
to  Maddock  with  unusual  patience. 

"You  have  been  looking  for  trouble  ever  since  you 
came  aboard  this  ship.  Have  you  any  complaints 


136  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

—  has  anybody  abused  you  or  handed  you  a  dirty 
deal?" 

"No,  it  ain't  that,  sir,"  replied  the  fireman, 
evidently  surprised  by  the  turn  of  the  inquiry. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  sharply  demanded  the  skipper. 
"Here  you  are,  an  old  hand,  and  a  regular  bruiser 
of  a  man  —  just  the  kind  the  Navy  needs  to  shovel 
the  coal  in.  It's  the  finest  kind  of  a  chance  to  do  your 
bit." 

"Ain't  I  doing  it?"  fiercely  interrupted  Maddock. 
"Show  me  any  three  guys  that  do  as  much  in  a 
watch." 

"I  grant  you  that,"  evenly  replied  Duncan; 
"but  why  don't  you  help  the  other  men  to  learn  the 
trick  of  it?  They  have  enlisted  because  they  love 
their  flag  and  country.  They  don't  pretend  to  be 
expert  firemen  or  coal-passers.  I  thought  I  was  lucky 
when  I  laid  eyes  on  you  and  looked  up  your  record 
at  sea.  I  expected  to  give  you  a  better  rating  before 
long.  But  you  are  a  chronic  disturbance,  you  hinder 
the  work  below,  and  I  don't  propose  to  stand  for  it." 

From  his  towering  height  "Bull"  Maddock  looked 
down  at  the  dapper  officer,  and  said  with  a  grin: 

"Aw,  this  make-believe  sailorin'  gets  my  goat.  You 
leave  those  left-footed  young  loafers  to  me  and  I'll 
make  firemen  of  'em  or  they'll  wish  they  was  in 
hell." 

"Make-believe  sailoring,  is  it,  Maddock?"  crisply 
responded  Lieutenant- Commander  "Dusty"  Dun 
can.  "That's  quite  enough  from  you.  Here,  master- 
at-arms,  put  the  irons  on  this  man  and  confine  him 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  137 

on  bread  and  water.  It  may  sweeten  him  up  a 
bit." 

"Bull"  Haddock  stepped  back  and  cleared  for 
action.  He  felt  in  honor  bound  to  give  as  good  an 
account  of  himself  as  he  had  in  the  case  of  the  four 
New  York  policemen  who  had  inserted  him  into  the 
patrol  wagon.  The  Navy  moved  with  a  celerity, 
however,  which  baffled  his  intentions.  An  automatic 
pistol  poked  him  in  the  stomach  and  while  he  hesi 
tated  the  bracelets  clicked  on  his  wrists.  His  surren 
der  was  immediate  and  unconditional.  As  he  passed 
along  the  deck  in  custody  of  the  master-at-arms, 
whose  demeanor  was  stolid  and  unruffled,  there  was 
never  a  gleam  of  sympathy  among  the  crew.  The 
youngsters  grinned  and  nudged  each  other  and 
Maddock  observed  their  mirth. 

For  him  there  was  no  novelty  in  sitting  in  a  cell 
with  barred  windows,  nor  could  he  feel  the  stigma 
of  disgrace,  but  the  sense  of  humiliation  scorched 
him  like  a  live  coal  and  his  anger  was  stirred  to  its 
muddy  depths.  To  be  laughed  at  by  these  boyish 
rookies  of  the  Navy  was  intolerable,  but  he  hated 
them  not  so  much  as  he  did  the  skipper  of  the 
Albacore,  the  dapper  little  lieutenant-commander 
who  had  ordered  him  flung  into  the  brig.  Brooding 
in  the  gloomy  room,  he  said  to  himself: 

"He  looked  at  me  like  I  was  dirt,  the  chesty 
gink !  I  was  n't  giving  him  any  lip  —  I  had  n't 
started  nothin'  rough  —  and  he  was  hopin'  for  a 
chance  to  drill  me  with  a  bullet.  Navy  stuff,  uh? 
Get  a  man  that  can  do  his  work  and  then  hand  it 


138  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

him  worse  'n  a  dog.  Maybe  I  '11  show  this  bird  - 
the  two  of  us  '11  be  ashore  some  night  and  there  won't 
be  no  Johnny  Legs  handy  with  a  gun  and  a  pair  of 
irons." 

At  dinner  in  the  ward-room,  the  engineer  officer 
seemed  annoyed  as  he  said  to  "Dusty"  Duncan: 

"You  went  and  pinched  my  bucko  fireman  after 
all.  What  am  I  going  to  do  without  him?" 

"Your  problem,  my  dear  boy,"  was  the  urbane 
answer.  "Apparently  you  could  n't  manage  him, 
so  I  had  to  draw  cards.  He  is  mean  clear  through. 
If  he  seems  sorry  for  his  sins  I  will  return  him  to 
morrow." 

"You  better  had,  Skipper,  if  you  expect  standard 
speed  when  his  watch  is  on.  Wow,  but  he  is  some 
walloper  of  a  coal-tosser." 

"But  he  can't  be  permitted  to  run  this  ship," 
was  the  stiff  retort.  "I  intend  to  keep  an  eye  on  him. 
He  has  the  makings  of  a  useful  gob." 

Unrepentant,  but  outwardly  subdued,  "Bull" 
Maddock  returned  to  duty  and  ceased  to  curse  or 
taunt  his  companions  of  the  fire-room.  He  became 
even  more  solitary  and  detached  than  before.  Oddly 
enough,  the  first  man  to  break  through  his  resentful 
reticence  was  the  intellectual  youth,  Spencer  Lucas, 
who  had  attempted  to  brain  him  with  a  shovel. 
They  slept  in  the  same  tier  of  bunks  forward  and 
faced  each  other  across  the  mess-table.  Maddock 
must  have  cherished  a  sneaking  respect  for  the  valor 
of  the  seasick  amateur  in  assaulting  him,  and  Spencer 
Lucas,  for  his  part,  may  have  regarded  the  big 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  139 

fireman  as  a  study  in  psychology.  At  any  rate,  they 
were  seen  talking  together  on  deck,  to  the  amaze 
ment  of  all  hands. 

"He  really  loosened  up,"  Lucas  explained  to  a 
chum.  "I  promised  to  write  a  letter  for  him  —  to 
a  girl  in  New  York,  telling  her  what  had  become  of 
him.  He  left  her  suddenly,  it  seems,  under  the  mis 
taken  impression  that  he  had  broken  the  neck  of  a 
rival.  There's  romance  for  you!  Could  you  beat  it? 
And  I  hope  to  write  realistic  fiction  some  day.  I  shall 
cultivate  'Bull'  Haddock." 

It  was  not  so  strange,  after  all,  that  this  pair  of 
shipmates,  so  utterly  dissimilar,  should  have  arrived 
at  an  understanding,  although  they  had  nothing 
whatever  in  common.  The  war  had  snatched  Spencer 
Lucas,  the  student,  from  a  sheltered,  uneventful 
existence  that  was  almost  cloistered.  He  was  ig 
norant  of  life,  as  the  saying  is,  excepting  as  he  had 
read  of  it  in  books.  This  "Bull "  Haddock,  speaking 
a  different  language,  revealed  to  him  glimpses  of  a 
world  raw,  passionate,  and  turbulent  in  which  the 
weaker  man  was  stamped  under  foot.  And  because 
Spencer  Lucas  was  genuinely  interested  in  what 
he  had  to  say,  the  bully  of  the  fire-room  gang  be 
came  less  taciturn,  more  human.  Nobody  else  had 
ever  cared.  They  were  brief  tales,  gruff  references, 
told  without  egotism  or  boasting,  but  to  the  sen 
sitive  imagination  of  young  Lucas  they  were  like 
pictures  such  as  an  artist  conjures  on  canvas  with 
a  few  sweeping  strokes  of  the  brush.  They  vividly 
portrayed  for  him  the  eternal  conflict  of  men  with 


140  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  sea,  and  the  fleeting  respites  whose  vision  knew 
naught  else  than  the  gin  mills,  brawls,  and  brothels 
of  the  water-side  which  seemed  so  sad  and  wicked 
and  forlorn. 

This  one  redeeming  virtue  was  to  be  inferred,  that 
"Bull"  Maddock  had  never  dodged  a  fight  or  left 
a  pal  in  the  lurch.  And  while  Spencer  Lucas  listened 
so  attentively  and  coaxed  for  more,  the  stalwart 
wastrel  was  also  caught  and  held  by  new  impressions. 
Unconsciously  they  were  influencing  him  to  doff  a 
little  of  his  brutal,  uncouth  demeanor.  At  times  his 
eyes  were  wistful  and  perplexed  as  though  he  were 
groping  for  something  which  eluded  him.  It  was 
perhaps  because  he  began  to  surmise  that  he  was 
his  worst  enemy.  Spencer  Lucas  discovered  that  he 
had  once  put  on  the  gloves  against  a  heavy-weight 
champion  of  the  British  Navy  and  knocked  him  over 
the  ropes  in  six  rounds.  Lucas  persuaded  him  to  box 
an  exhibition  bout  with  a  beefy  gunner's  mate  of 
the  Albacore  who  had  bragged  of  his  own  prowess. 
Maddock  showed  a  speed  and  skill  which  smothered 
his  opponent,  but  he  was  merciful  and  inflicted  no 
serious  damage.  Nothing  could  have  been  better  for 
Maddock  than  the  hearty  cheers  of  his  shipmates. 
He  actually  grinned  and  ducked  his  head  in  response. 
In  the  fire-room  that  night,  Spencer  Lucas  said  to 
him: 

"The  whole  outfit  respected  you  for  the  way  you 
handled  yourself ,  'Bull.'" 

"Uh?  I  don't  get  you.  You  mean  they  think  I'm 
not  so  rotten?" 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  141 

"Precisely  that.  You  put  up  a  fair,  clean  scrap 
with  Brady  —  kept  your  temper,  and  boxed  like  a 
wizard." 

"Lay  off  that  stuff,  bo.  Nothin'  to  it.  The  skipper 
thinks  I'm  a  dirty  hound,  and  the  boys  follow  his 
lead.  I'll  never  get  by  with  the  Navy." 

Spencer  Lucas  earnestly  disputed  this.  He  felt 
convinced  that  Maddock  had  acquired  merit  and 
would  some  day  make  a  corking  bluejacket.  The 
Albacore  pursued  her  long  voyage  with  the  favor 
of  bright  skies  and  a  kindly  sea  while  the  crew 
adapted  itself,  with  a  zealous  intelligence,  to  the 
arduous  routine  of  the  day's  work.  There  were  a  few 
seasoned  petty  officers  to  leaven  the  raw  lump  and 
Lieutenant-Commander  "Dusty"  Duncan  possessed 
an  extraordinary  knack  of  infusing  a  ship's  company 
with  his  own  alert  and  disciplined  personality.  He 
dared  not  trust  too  much  to  his  officers  and  he  grew 
thin  with  loss  of  sleep,  but  his  demeanor  was  no 
less  jaunty  and  he  smiled  approvingly  when  the 
fo'castle  quartet  rolled  out  the  chorus  that  ended: 

"Tho'  it's  mighty  inconvenient 
To  be  heaving  up  your  grub, 
Still  we're  steaming  to  the  east'ard 
And  we're  hunting  for  a  sub." 

And  so  they  rolled  into  the  Bay  of  Biscay  and 
sighted  the  bold  headlands  of  France  where  the 
valiant  little  torpedo-boat,  flying  the  Tricolor,  came 
out  to  meet  and  welcome  them,  and  seaplanes 
swooped  overhead.  The  Albacore,  quite  ship-shape 
by  now,  steamed  into  an  ancient  port  whose  gray 


142  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

citadel  had  beheld  the  navies,  forays,  and  invasions 
of  a  thousand  years.  She  anchored  in  the  shelter 
of  a  breakwater  and  saw  the  huge,  crowded  troop 
ships  disembarking  their  regiments  of  men  in  khaki 
who  were  resolved  to  smash  their  way  to  Berlin. 
American  yachts  and  destroyers  were  already  in 
the  harbor,  and  with  blinker  and  flag-hoist  they 
signaled  cheery  greetings.  To  the  men  of  the  Albacore 
it  was  thrilling  to  feel  that  they  were  in  the  game  and 
about  to  play  a  hand. 

The  liberty  parties  swarmed  into  the  boats,  eager 
to  hit  the  beach  and  discover  what  France  was  like, 
but  there  was  no  shore  leave  for  "Bull"  Maddock. 
He  was  not  alone  in  his  misery,  for  Spencer  Lucas 
also  suffered  the  penalty  because  of  that  argument 
with  a  coal  shovel.  As  befitted  a  student  of  philosophy 
he  forbore  to  rail  against  his  fate,  but  the  big  fireman 
cursed  his  luck  and  hated  Lieutenant- Commander 
"Dusty"  Duncan  more  earnestly  than  ever.  There 
was  no  law  to  stop  a  man  in  uniform  from  buying 
a  drink  ashore,  so  "Bull"  had  discovered,  and  the 
French  girls  were  said  to  admire  the  bold  Yankee 
bluejacket,  wherefore  it  was  a  sore  affliction  to  be 
marooned  aboard  the  Albacore. 

He  was  in  a  disgruntled  humor,  darkly  nursing 
his  grievances,  when  the  yacht  sailed  four  days 
later  on  escort  duty  with  a  coastwise  merchant  con 
voy  bound  across  the  English  Channel.  Off  Ushant 
she  sighted  a  German  submarine  which  hoped  to 
play  havoc  with  the  plodding  cargo  boats,  like  a 
coyote  in  a  sheep-fold,  but  the  jubilant  tars  of  the 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  143 

Albacore  banged  away  with  three-inch  shells  and 
compelled  the  pirate  to  submerge.  By  way  of  good 
measure,  two  depth  bombs  were  dropped  from  the 
stern,  and  they  may  have  damaged  Fritz,  for  he 
leaked  a  large  amount  of  oil  which  floated  up  in 
glistening  blobs. 

The  explosion  of  the  bombs  shook  the  yacht  as 
if  she  had  run  on  a  reef.  Down  in  the  fire-room  "Bull" 
Maddock  and  Spencer  Lucas  were  knocked  headlong 
and  they  were  ready  to  swear  that  the  ship  had  been 
torpedoed. 

"A  great  life  —  nix,"  growled  Maddock  as  he 
rubbed  a  bruised  ear.  "These  guys  get  a  fine  little 
scrap  —  shootin'  up  a  Hun  and  lettin'  him  have  a 
couple  of  depth  bums,  and  where  do  we  come  in,  uh? 
Not  a  thing  do  we  see  of  it,  and  we  get  stood  on  our 
heads." 

"Oh,  we  have  to  be  satisfied  with  doing  our  duty," 
replied  Spencer  Lucas. 

"Duty?  I'd  like  to  meet  the  lad  that  invented 
that  word,"  angrily  observed  Maddock.  "This  war 
and  me  don't  hit  it  off  at  all." 

The  skipper  was  in  a  more  jovial  mood  than  this. 
His  yacht  had  behaved  with  credit  in  the  first  en 
counter  with  the  enemy  and  the  convoy  was  safe 
guarded  against  loss.  It  was  because  of  the  efficient 
conduct  of  the  watches  below  that  full  steam  pres 
sure  had  been  given  when  needed  and  the  Albacore 
was  thereby  enabled  to  make  for  the  U-boat  at  top 
speed  and  so  release  the  deadly  charges  that  explode 
under  water.  As  one  of  the  gang  to  receive  com- 


144  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

mendation,  "Bull"  Haddock  was  restored  to  favor 
and  could  look  forward  to  a  brief  liberty  at  the  end 
of  the  voyage. 

The  paymaster  was  waiting  for  the  Albacore 
when  she  returned  to  port,  and  Haddock  had  a 
roll  of  money  in  his  pocket.  Spencer  Lucas  went 
ashore  with  him,  hoping  for  the  best,  but  expecting 
the  worst.  As  a  chaperon  and  guardian  of  morals, 
the  scholar  of  the  stoke-hole  felt  that  his  work  was 
cut  out  for  him.  Haddock  looked  spick-and-span 
in  a  new  uniform.  He  had  intentions,  however, 
which  were  not  so  creditable,  and  he  confided  to  his 
companion,  in  accents  deep  and  sincere: 

"Watch  my  smoke,  kid.  I'm  liable  to  give  you  an 
imitation  of  a  strong  man  stewed  to  the  guards. 
And  then  if  I  run  afoul  of  Lieutenant- Commander 
'Dusty'  Duncan,  he'll  have  something  to  put  me 
in  irons  for." 

"But,  my  goodness,  'Bull',"  gasped  the  horrified 
Spencer  Lucas,  "if  you  lay  hands  on  an  officer  you 
may  be  sent  to  prison  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  Please 
come  along  with  me  and  we'll  have  a  nice  little 
dinner  at  the  Y.H.C.A.,  and  — " 

"Bull"  Haddock  laughed  at  this  and  rudely 
broke  in:  "You  won't  do,  kid.  I  guess  we  part 
company.  Our  ideas  of  shore  liberty  don't  hitch. 
Wow,  look  at  the  joint  with  a  million  bottles  in  the 
window.  And  pipe  the  dame  behind  the  bar!  So 
long!  This  village  of  Brest  sure  does  look  good  to 
me." 

Disconsolately  the  conscientious  Spencer  Lucas 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  145 

proceeded  up  the  street  alone,  convinced  that  his 
labors  had  been  wasted.  The  big  fireman  was  a 
hopeless  blackguard  instead  of  a  brand  plucked 
from  the  burning.  For  his  own  part,  Haddock  was 
also  suffering  disappointment.  There  was  never  a 
whiskey  bottle  in  the  wine-shop,  nor  could  he  buy 
any  other  tipple  with  a  real  kick  to  it,  for  cognac 
was  under  the  ban.  He  swigged  red  wine  and  white 
wine,  shifted  to  sherry,  topped  it  off  with  port,  and 
accumulated  no  more  than  a  warm  glow  and  a 
slightly  fuzzy  sensation  in  the  head. 

"I'll  be  drownded  before  I  get  the  feel  of  liquor 
in  me,"  he  sadly  observed  to  the  black-eyed  young 
woman  who  served  him,  but  she  could  only  smile 
and  mystify  him  with  vivacious  repartee  of  which 
he  understood  not  a  word.  He  determined  to  seek 
other  havens,  and,  with  the  instinct  of  his  kind, 
steered  a  course  for  the  most  disreputable  quarter 
of  the  city,  jostling  French  sailors,  Senegalese  in 
fantrymen,  negro  stevedores,  and  Tonquin  coolies 
from  his  path.  At  the  head  of  an  alley  in  which 
slatternly,  painted  women  loitered  in  the  doorways, 
a  trim  young  American  bluejacket  raised  his  trun 
cheon  and  curtly  announced: 

"Nothing  doing,  old  sport!  Out  of  bounds  — 
savvey?  No  Yanks  need  apply." 

"Beat  it,  son.  You're  obstructin*  traffic,"  growled 
the  fireman. 

The  youngster  rapped  on  the  pavement  and  three 
other  sturdy  members  of  the  naval  patrol  force 
mobilized  from  streets  near  by.  They  came  on  the 


146  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

run  and  Maddock  concluded  to  move  on.  The 
meddlesome  Navy  had  interfered  with  him  again. 
What  right  had  it  to  police  the  red-light  district  of 
a  French  town?  "Bull"  Maddock  was  unable  to 
fathom  it,  but  there  was  no  use  in  arguing  the  mat 
ter.  The  odds  were  against  him  and  he  was  still  too 
sober  to  fight  all  hands. 

For  hours  he  wandered  and  grew  weary  of  white 
wine  and  red,  nor  was  he  a  sociable  creature  by 
nature  so  that  he  failed  to  enjoy  the  cosmopolitan 
atmosphere  of  this  port  of  many  nations.  It  was  in 
the  evening  when  he  became  conscious  of  a  gnawing 
hunger  which  increased  his  irritation.  He  had  eaten 
what  one  or  two  little  French  restaurants  had  to 
offer,  but  this  was  no  more  than  a  provocation.  One 
could  not  call  it  grub  for  a  strong  man  like  "Bull" 
Maddock.  At  length  his  aimless  pilgrimage  carried 
him  past  a  large  building  facing  an  open  square 
and  he  halted  to  stare  through  the  uncurtained 
windows.  In  the  gloom  he  failed  to  discern  the  sign 
above  the  door,  but  the  place  was  mightily  attrac 
tive. 

Yankee  bluejackets  were  eating  at  small  tables,  a 
piano  was  rattling  rag-time,  and  there  were  glimpses 
of  two  or  three  women  in  a  sort  of  natty  uniform 
who  appeared  to  be  in  charge.  "Bull"  Maddock 
moved  nearer,  and  as  the  door  swung  open  there  was 
wafted  out  the  savor  of  real  coffee  such  as  is  brewed 
in  God's  country.  These  women  —  they  were  not 
French,  reflected  the  derelict;  and  although  he  had 
never  moved  in  respectable  circles  he  was  quite 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  147 

certain  that  they  were  not  the  kind  he  knew.  They 
were  actually  waiting  on  the  American  gobs  at  the 
tables  and  talking  with  them.  He  was  inclined  to 
shy  off,  but  at  recognizing  two  lads  from  the  Alba- 
core  he  overcame  his  diffidence  and  hovered  in  the 
doorway. 

"A  swell  dump,  and  I  don't  get  it  at  all,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "but  I'm  pavement  sore  and  adrift  with 
nowheres  to  go." 

When  he  entered  the  room  his  manner  was  truc 
ulent,  as  though  he  dared  them  to  throw  him  out, 
but  nobody  seemed  to  consider  him  an  intruder  and 
he  slumped  into  a  chair  at  the  nearest  table.  Presently 
he  was  ordering  a  steak,  French  fried  potatoes,  apple 
pie  and  coffee,  with  doughnuts  and  cheese  on  the 
side.  The  menu  card  disclosed  the  appalling  fact  that 
he  had  strayed  into  the  Y.M.C.A.,  but  under  the 
mellowing  influence  of  a  square  meal  he  ceased  to 
care.  There  was  no  preaching  sermons  at  him  and 
he  was  not  regarded  as  a  lost  soul.  In  fact  it  was 
a  sailors'  hang-out,  but  cleaner  and  sweeter  than  he 
had  ever  dreamed  such  a  resort  could  be. 

A  burly,  resolute  figure  of  a  bluejacket  as  he  sat 
there,  one  of  the  women  noticed  him  and  was  quick 
to  read  the  kind  of  man  he  was.  At  home  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  wealth  and  social  station,  but 
she  seemed  no  less  at  ease  amid  these  strange  sur 
roundings.  "Bull"  Maddock  eyed  her  with  curiosity 
and  wonderment.  She  was  what  they  called  a  lady, 
you  could  gamble  on  that,  and  she  was  still  youthful, 
with  bonny  brown  hair  and  a  fine  color  and  a  smile 


148  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

that  was  jolly  and  frank.  Haddock  lingered,  smoking 
cigarettes  and  listening  to  the  chorus  of  the  blue 
jackets  at  the  piano. 

After  a  while  the  lady  crossed  the  room  and  halted 
to  say  to  the  silent  fireman  of  the  Albacore: 

"Is  this  your  first  visit  in  port?  I  am  sure  you 
have  n't  been  in  here  before." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  it's  my  first  offense,"  replied  the 
blushing  giant,  who  was  very  much  confused. 

"I  am  Miss  Penfield,  of  Baltimore,"  was  the 
gracious  information.  "And  your  name?" 

"Haddock,  James  J.,  ma'am.  I  was  in  Balti 
more  three  years  ago,  in  a  Fruit  Company's  steamer, 
and  busted  my  crust  fallin'  through  a  hatch." 

"How  unfortunate.  But  it  mended,  of  course. 
You  look  as  though  nothing  could  hurt  you  very 
much.  Is  the  Y.M.C.A.  so  dreadful,  after  all?  You 
seemed  all  fussed  up  when  you  came  in." 

"Well,  a  tramp  like  me  ain't  in  the  habit  of  it," 
admitted  Haddock  in  apologetic  tones.  "But  I'm 
ready  to  murder  the  lad  that  knocks  this  place  of 
yours.  What's  the  idea?  In  the  merchant  service 
most  people  did  n't  care  whether  a  sailor  went  to 
hell  or  not.  At  least,  I  never  run  into  no  life-savin' 
apparatus  like  this.  Perhaps  I  was  out  o'  luck." 

"I  am  sure  you  were,"  Hiss  Penfield  replied,  with 
grave  sympathy,  and  her  voice  was  almost  motherly. 
"The  folks  at  home  expect  us  to  take  the  best  of  care 
of  you  boys.  Have  you  been  in  the  Navy  long?" 

"No,  ma'am,  but  I'm  an  old  hand  at  stokin'  fur 
naces  and  there's  few  seas  I  have  n't  sizzled  in." 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  149 

"Oh,  dear!  A  hard  life,  but  it's  different  now  that 
you  are  serving  the  flag,  Mr.  Maddock." 

In  the  bold  face  of  the  outcast  there  was  a  re 
sponsive  gleam.  The  episode  was  so  prodigiously 
novel  that  new  emotions  stirred  within  him.  He  be 
came  loquacious  while  they  talked  of  ships  and  con 
voys  and  submarines  and  the  gossip  of  the  fleet. 
The  other  men  went  out  until  the  room  was  almost 
empty.  Maddock  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  wall. 
It  was  almost  time  for  him  to  seek  the  boat  at  the 
landing-stage. 

Miss  Penfield  exclaimed: 

"I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  must  begin  to  batten  things 
down  for  the  night.  It  is  my  late  trick  and  the  other 
girls  have  gone.  And  the  French  janitor  was  taken 
ill  this  morning." 

"Let  me  bear  a  hand,  ma'am,"  urged  Mad- 
dock. 

"Thank  you  so  much.  The  wooden  shutters  are 
rather  clumsy  to  close  and  fasten." 

Before  the  lights  were  turned  out,  he  looked 
again  at  the  clock.  He  had  not  a  minute  to  spare, 
but  Miss  Penfield  was  standing  irresolute  as  though 
waiting  for  some  one.  "Bull"  Maddock  thought 
of  the  throngs  of  alien  soldiers  and  sailors  in  the  dim 
and  narrow  streets  and  a  vague  sense  of  chivalry 
caused  him  to  suggest: 

"It  don't  seem  right  to  me  for  a  lady  to  be  pesterin' 
around  alone  at  this  hour." 

"I  expected  a  friend,"  she  explained,  "but  I 
won't  wait.  Three  of  us  girls  have  a  little  apartment 


150  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

together  beyond  the  Rue  Saigon  and  I  can  find  it 
with  no  trouble  whatever." 

"Not  by  yourself  you  don't,  ma'am,"  heavily 
objected  "Bull."  "I  tacked  across  the  Rue  Saigon 
a  couple  of  times  to-day  and  it  looked  rough  to  me. 
It's  right  next  to  the  —  to  the  district  that's  put 
out  of  bounds." 

"I  understand,"  said  Miss  Penfield,  smiling  at 
his  manly  concern  for  her  welfare.  "If  you  insist, 
Mr.  Maddock,  it  will  be  pleasant  to  have  you  walk 
along  with  me." 

"Nothing  else  to  it,  ma'am,"  declared  her  wor 
shipful  protector,  who  knew  full  well  that  he  would 
be  logged  and  punished  for  missing  the  liberty  boat. 
This  was  of  no  consequence.  The  lady  had  been  good 
to  him  and  it  was  his  duty  to  stand  by.  It  was  al 
together  a  wonderful  experience  which  rather  be- 
dazed  him.  Swinging  along  beside  Miss  Penfield  he 
towered  masterfully  above  her  and  there  was  a 
chip  upon  that  broad  shoulder  of  his.  If  she  had 
been  so  much  as  jostled  there  would  have  been  need 
of  an  undertaker.  When  they  parted  at  the  door 
of  the  picturesque  old  dwelling,  "Bull"  Maddock 
said,  with  simple  sincerity: 

"This  has  been  one  whale  of  a  night,  ma'am. 
I'll  call  myself  a  liar  whenever  I  wake  up  and  think 
about  it  at  sea." 

"You  will  be  sure  to  come  and  see  us  again?" 
asked  Miss  Penfield,  a  little  anxiously. 

"If  I  have  to  swim  for  it,  so  help  me,"  answered 
"Bull"  Maddock. 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  151 

He  stood  looking  at  the  house  after  she  had 
vanished  within,  not  in  sentimental  rapture,  but 
as  one  whose  soul  was  filled  with  amazed  grati 
tude.  Then  he  trudged  in  the  direction  of  the  harbor 
in  the  faint  hope  that  he  might  be  able  to  return  to 
his  ship.  At  a  twist  of  a  small,  darkened  street  he 
saw,  by  the  glimmer  of  an  overhead  light,  a  man 
approaching  whose  uniform  was  unmistakably  that 
of  an  American  naval  officer.  More  than  this,  "Bull" 
Maddock  was  able  to  identify  him  as  the  skipper  of 
the  Albacore,  Lieutenant- Commander  "Dusty"  Dun 
can.  Maddock  himself  was  screened  by  the  gloom  and 
he  could  have  stepped  aside  and  waited. 

It  was  the  opportunity  which  his  brooding  hatred 
had  yearned  for,  the  chance  to  satisfy  his  grudge  and 
go  undetected.  To  knock  the  skipper  senseless  and 
then  kick  him  in  the  face  or  ribs  —  this  would  have 
been  the  procedure  of  the  "Bull"  Maddock  who  had 
raged  through  Front  Street  and  the  Barbary  Coast. 
It  was  not  only  because  he  happened  to  be  sober  now 
that  he  let  the  lieutenant-commander  pass  unscathed. 
He  had  given  his  word  to  Miss  Penfield  that  he  would 
go  to  the  Y.M.C.A.  for  his  next  liberty,  and  he  pro 
posed  to  earn  it  by  good  conduct.  And  beating  up  his 
skipper  did  n't  seem  to  be  playing  square  with  the 
lady.  "Bull"  Maddock  could  not  have  reasoned  it 
clearly  for  you,  but  such  a  deed  of  violence  was  not 
the  proper  way  of  finishing  an  evening  of  unheard-of 
satisfaction. 

"She  wouldn't  like  it,"  he  reflected,  breathing 
heavily  as  he  resumed  the  march  to  the  landing- 


152  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

stage.  "Ladies  like  her  don't  understand  the  rough 
stuff." 

Alas,  there  was  no  boat  to  carry  him  off  to  the  Al- 
bacore,  and  he  loitered  forlornly,  vainly  trying  to  ex 
plain  his  plight  to  the  crew  of  a  French  torpedo-boat. 
At  length,  he  found  a  hotel  and  turned  in  for  the  rest 
of  the  night,  but  slept  poorly.  It  was  eight  o'clock 
next  morning  when  he  reported  aboard  in  the  old, 
surly  humor,  feeling  that  every  man's  hand  was 
against  him.  The  gaze  of  the  righteous  Spencer 
Lucas  was  reproachful  and  his  greeting  distant.  He 
assumed,  of  course,  that  the  black  sheep  had  been 
shamefully  drunk  as  announced  beforehand.  The 
commanding  officer  held  the  same  opinion  when  he 
summoned  the  culprit  aft. 

"Anything  to  say  for  yourself?"  asked  "Dusty" 
Duncan,  very  peppery  and  disgusted. 

"Not  a  word,  sir,"  glowered  "Bull"  Maddock. 

"No  excuse  for  overstaying  liberty?  I  thought  you 
might  try  to  fake  up  a  new  story,  but  you  are  too 
dumb  for  that.  I'm  sorry,  my  man.  I'd  like  to  hear 
you  say  you  were  sober,  even  if  I  could  n't  believe 
it." 

"I  ain't  framin'  up  no  alibi,  sir.  Nobody  ever  saw 
me  squeal  on  taking  my  medicine." 

Strange  that  although  "Bull"  Maddock  had  not 
the  slightest  conception  of  the  code  of  a  gentleman, 
something  told  him  that  it  was  dirty  work  to  drag  a 
lady's  name  into  a  mess  like  this  or  to  use  her  as  a 
shield.  Stolidly  he  stood  and  listened  to  the  penalty 
of  liberty  stopped.  Cheap  at  the  price,  said  the  of- 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  153 

fender  to  himself,  as  he  recalled  his  role  of  a  guardian 
to  the  winsome  Miss  Penfield,  but  he  hated  "Dusty" 
Duncan  rather  more  than  less. 

Disaster  came  when  least  expected  in  the  game 
which  the  Navy  played  off  the  coast  of  France.  The 
Albacore  sailed  soon  after  this  to  escort  a  group  of 
empty  transports  and  see  them  well  on  their  home 
ward  way.  Safely  the  gallant  yacht  performed  her 
task  and  was  heading  back  for  port  when  a  torpedo 
hit  her  almost  amidships  in  the  dark  of  a  windy 
night.  It  was  a  chance  shot  for  the  prowling  U-boat 
which  happened  to  poke  up  a  periscope  at  precisely 
the  right  time  and  place.  Unseen  by  the  vigilant  gun 
crews  and  lookouts  of  the  Albacore,  the  pirate  sub 
marine  launched  the  missile  at  less  than  a  thousand 
yards. 

The  yacht  seemed  to  fly  to  pieces,  to  disintegrate. 
Her  structure  was  too  fragile  to  withstand  the  rend 
ing  detonation  in  her  vitals.  And  yet  in  these  mo 
ments  of  hideous  destruction  the  discipline  and  the 
spirit  of  the  Navy  held  these  young  bluejackets 
steady.  They  tried  to  do  what  they  had  been  taught, 
to  carry  on  as  long  as  the  deck  floated  under  their 
feet.  Those  who  were  not  instantly  killed  obeyed  the 
orders  of  their  officers  and  thought  not  of  their  own 
salvation. 

Down  in  the  fire-room,  "Bull"  Haddock  had 
leaped  for  a  ladder,  dragging  and  thrusting  Spencer 
Lucas  up  ahead  of  him.  The  black  water  was  boiling 
over  the  plates  even  as  they  fled.  The  coal  bunkers 
had  protected  them  against  death,  given  them  a  brief 


154  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

respite,  and  instead  of  being  torn  to  pieces  most  of 
the  men  of  the  watch  were  able  to  scramble  to  the 
deck.  When  they  reached  it,  the  yacht  was  about  to 
plunge  under.  The  boats  had  been  cut  away,  life  rafts 
shoved  overside,  and  men  were  jumping  into  the 
water  to  escape  the  suction  of  the  drowning  ship. 
There  were  few  cries  for  help.  They  took  it  grimly,  as 
in  the  day's  work,  and  blindly  trusted  to  the  luck  of 
the  Navy. 

"Bull"  Haddock  dived  from  the  shattered  bul 
wark  and  came  up  clear  of  the  wreckage,  swimming 
powerfully  with  an  overhand  stroke. 

Colliding  with  a  floating  bit  of  woodwork,  he  clung 
to  it  with  one  hand  and  steadily  forged  ahead  in  the 
direction  of  a  boat  which  showed  the  gleam  of  a  flash 
light.  The  boat  was  moving  away  from  him,  however, 
and  he  scorned  to  yell  after  it. 

"Jammed  full  already  and  probably  leakin'  like  a 
basket,"  he  muttered.  "They  won't  be  lookin'  for 
more  passengers." 

The  yacht  foundered  with  a  great  hissing  of  steam 
and  the  ocean  was  dotted  with  the  men  hidden  in  the 
profound  obscuration  of  the  cloudy  sky.  Most  of 
them  were  slowly  collecting  together  on  the  rafts  or 
in  the  boats  which  had  not  been  destroyed,  but  a  few 
like  "Bull"  Maddock  were  farther  away  and  there 
fore  undiscovered.  He  was  not  greatly  troubled.  Help 
would  come  after  a  while  and  he  could  hang  on  until 
daylight.  It  was  lonely,  however,  and  when  he  de 
cided  to  shout,  the  other  castaways  off  to  windward 
failed  to  hear  him. 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  155 

He  was  pleased  when  another  voice  answered  his 
hail  and  he  paddled  closer,  but  the  call  became  so 
faint  that  he  almost  lost  it.  Then  he  changed  his 
course  and  fairly  bumped  into  a  man  who  was  swim 
ming  without  even  a  life-belt.  Recognition  was  mu 
tual.  Feebly,  but  with  a  note  of  cheer  in  it,  Lieuten 
ant-Commander  "Dusty"  Duncan  piped  up: 

"Maddock,  is  it?  I  heard  you  grunt  and  cuss  just 
now.  How  are  you  making  it?" 

"Fine  and  dandy,  sir,"  answered  the  fireman,  by 
no  means  cordial.  "It's  a  hell  of  a  long  swim  to 
port." 

"Right  you  are.  Our  people  have  drifted  away 
from  us.  I  went  down  with  the  ship  —  she  was  in  such 
a  blazing  hurry  to  plunge  under  —  and  I  reckon  they 
thought  I  was  done  for." 

"You're  in  a  bad  fix  now,"  declared  Maddock. 
"Grab  hold  of  this  piece  of  bulkhead  of  mine.  I've 
a  good  mind  to  shove  you  under,  but  it  don't  seem 
quite  fair." 

"Oh,  don't  put  yourself  out  if  you  feel  that  way," 
murmured  the  undaunted  skipper. 

"You  surely  have  treated  me  raw,"  asserted  Mad- 
dock.  "It  'ud  serve  you  right.  Here,  you  shrimp,  lay 
hold  of  this  raft  of  mine." 

Duncan  laughed  and  obeyed  orders.  They  floated 
a  little  while,  but  the  weight  of  the  two  men  was  sag 
ging  the  bit  of  bulkhead  under  water  and  Maddock 
perceived  that  the  commander  had  almost  no 
strength  left.  Swearing  in  a  scandalous  manner,  the 
fireman  looped  his  leather  belt  about  Duncan's 


156  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

shoulders  and  caught  it  over  a  spike  in  the  broken 
timber.  Then  the  giant  of  the  stoke-hole,  impervious 
to  cold  and  exposure,  loosened  his  own  grip  of  the 
wretched  little  raft  and  swam  near  by. 

One  of  the  boats  found  them  two  hours  later,  Dun 
can  unconscious,  but  alive,  "Bull"  Maddock  still 
afloat,  although  almost  rigid.  Soon  after  daybreak  a 
French  patrol  boat  gathered  them  up  and  fled  back 
to  their  own  port  to  give  them  over  to  the  care  of  the 
American  admiral.  The  radio  carried  the  news,  and  a 
crowd  from  the  other  yachts  was  waiting  to  welcome 
the  survivors  of  the  Albacore.  Some  were  put  into 
ambulances,  but  "Bull"  Maddock  walked  down  the 
gangway.  With  him  was  Spencer  Lucas,  pallid  and 
limping,  but  anxious  to  be  sent  to  another  ship. 

Lieutenant-Commander  "Dusty"  Duncan  made  a 
brave  attempt  to  carry  it  off,  but  his  gait  wobbled 
and  the  navigator  steadied  him  with  an  arm  until 
they  were  on  the  wharf.  The  skipper  of  the  Albacore 
sat  down  upon  a  coil  of  hawser  to  watch  his  men 
brought  ashore.  Presently  he  turned  and  jumped  to 
his  feet,  all  pain  and  weariness  forgotten.  A  woman, 
charming  and  youthful,  was  hastening  toward  him 
and  the  light  in  her  face  was  very  wonderful.  Those 
who  saw  them  meet  were  tactful  enough  to  look  else 
where,  but  "Bull"  Maddock  stared  rudely,  with  his 
mouth  open.  Miss  Penfield  kissed  the  lieutenant- 
commander  and  he  seemed  not  in  the  least  surprised. 

"My  Gawd,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  muttered 
"Bull"  Maddock. 

"They  are  engaged  to  be  married,  you  big  simp," 


ON  A  LEE  SHORE  157 

chided  the  scholarly  Spencer  Lucas.  "Everybody 
knows  that.  It  happened  before  they  left  home." 

The  fireman  grinned,  groped  with  the  problem, 
and  announced  with  great  good-humor: 

"Listen,  kid!  I've  been  tryin'  to  dope  out  what 
kind  of  a  present  I  could  give  her.  She  was  good  to 
me,  all  right.  This  looks  as  if  I  win,  for  in  giving  her 
the  skipper  I  guess  I  made  a  hit." 


THE  NET  RESULT 

"THIS  here  war  is  no  place  for  a  nervous  man,"  casu 
ally  remarked  a  large,  melancholy  bluejacket  who 
tottered  under  the  weight  of  another  sand-bag. 

"You  said  something.  There's  times  when  you're 
almost  lucid,"  replied  a  runt  of  a  boatswain's  mate  as 
he  halted  to  shift  his  own  burden  and  incidentally  to 
wipe  his  nose.  "It  don't  quite  fit  in  with  my  notions 
of  a  sailor-man's  job,  but  ours  not  to  wonder  why,  as 
the  poet  observed.  Unless  you  want  to  get  blown 
clean  off  the  map  to-night,  you  big  loafer,  my  advice 
is  to  put  your  back  into  it  and  shove  her  along." 

They  trudged  onward  to  join  their  comrades  who 
carried  planks  and  rusted  plates  of  sheet-iron  as  well 
as  sand-bags,  while  other  squads  sweated  with  shovel 
and  mattock.  The  winter  rain  pelted  and  drenched 
them,  whipped  by  a  gale  which  lashed  the  shallow 
harbor  of  Dunkirk  into  muddy  froth  and  compelled 
the  brave  little  trawlers  to  forsake  their  task  of  mine- 
sweeping  and  come  rolling  in  for  shelter.  Between  the 
basins  where  the  vessels  were  moored  against  the 
walls  of  masonry  there  was  a  small  area  of  wharfage 
now  tenanted  by  several  shacks  and  barracks  of  rough 
lumber  above  which  snapped  a  frayed  ensign,  the 
Stars  and  Stripes. 

What  chiefly  interested  the  toiling  draft  of  a  hun 
dred  and  fifty  men  from  the  American  Navy  was  the 
completion  of  a  bomb-proof  refuge  spacious  enough 


THE  NET  RESULT  159 

to  contain  all  hands.  Just  why  the  higher  powers 
should  have  elected  to  establish  a  seaplane  base  in 
this  forlorn  and  battered  port  of  the  French  coast  was 
beyond  their  understanding,  but  they  felt  a  lively  re 
gard  for  the  safety  of  their  own  skins  and  therefore 
they  were  digging  themselves  in  with  the  most  earn 
est  zeal.  The  lieutenant  in  command,  spattered  with 
mud  from  his  rubber  boots  to  the  disreputable  blouse, 
showed  them  how  to  cover  the  roof  with  four  feet  of 
sand  and  a  final  layer  of  boiler  plate.  He  was  an  ener 
getic  young  man,  incurably  cheerful,  who  seemed  not 
in  the  least  dismayed  at  the  prospect  of  being  bombed 
from  the  air  almost  every  night. 

By  way  of  courtesy  a  captain  of  the  British  naval 
air  service  from  the  vast  station  a  little  way  inland 
had  called  to  offer  his  services,  serenely  commenting: 

"But  this  is  a  beastly  place  to  set  up  shop,  my  dear 
Lef tenant  Bevans  —  down  here  among  the  docks. 
You  will  be  bombed  out  of  it  inside  thirty  days.  The 
French  tried  it  —  a  seaplane  station  right  in  this 
same  spot  —  but  they  were  mopped  up  and  had  to 
chuck  it.  The  Boche  air  squadrons  follow  the  coast 
line  and  they  can  find  the  docks  even  in  a  dark 
night." 

"Thanks  for  the  advice,  sir,"  replied  Lieutenant 
"Chuck"  Bevans,  with  that  engaging  grin  of  his, 
"but  I'll  have  to  play  the  cards  as  they  lie.  Do  you 
care  to  look  at  our  dugout?  We  flatter  ourselves  that 
it  is  quite  the  latest  thing.  The  French  admiral  ap 
proves,  and  he  ought  to  know,  for  he's  been  living 
underground  in  Dunkirk  for  three  years  on  end." 


160 SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA ^_ 

The  British  captain  gravely  inspected  the  armored 
mound  and  crawled  into  the  damp,  gloomy  cavern. 
Then  he  visited  the  rough  sheds  in  which  the  Ameri 
can  sailors  were  quartered  and  glanced  at  the  huge 
tent  that  covered  a  few  obsolete  seaplanes  borrowed 
from  the  French.  He  lingered  to  chat  in  the  small 
room  where  the  lieutenant  lived,  or  rather  camped, 
with  a  stove  and  a  cot,  while  the  rain  beat  in  through 
the  seaward  wall.  From  a  window  they  could  discern, 
dim  and  sad  in  the  shrouding  weather,  the  shattered 
outlines  of  the  buildings  which  marched  along  the 
harbor-side  of  Dunkirk,  roofless,  tortured,  here  and 
there  a  gap  that  marked  obliteration.  They  indicated 
the  suffering  of  a  city  which  had  incessantly  endured 
bombardment,  from  the  air,  from  the  land,  from  the 
sea,  whose  spirit  was  unbroken,  whose  people  proudly 
defied  the  enemy. 

In  the  foreground,  alongside  the  stone  quay,  tow 
ered  two  of  the  British  monitors,  uncouth,  enormous, 
whose  business  it  was  to  hurl  fifteen-inch  shells  into 
Ostend  and  Zeebrugge.  The  captain  of  the  British 
naval  air  service  glanced  at  the  wisp  of  White  Ensign 
that  flew  from  the  stern  of  a  monitor  and  nodded  to 
the  American  lieutenant,  with  one  of  his  rare  smiles. 

"That  is  the  answer,  Bevans  —  why  you  chaps 
are  here,  what,  what?  To  show  that  we  stand  to 
gether,  the  lot  of  us,  until  the  war  is  won?" 

"I  think  that  is  why  we  Yanks  were  dumped  into 
Dunkirk,  sir,"  answered  "Chuck"  Bevans.  "The 
French  seemed  pleased  about  it,  and  so  do  your 
people." 


THE  NET  RESULT  161 

"Good  luck  to  you,  and  don't  forget  to  leg  it  into 
that  swagger  dugout  of  yours  when  you  hear  the 
alarm  signal." 

The  captain  motored  back  to  the  chateau  where 
he  lived  with  his  staff  and  his  servants,  and  from 
which  he  directed  the  operations  of  scores  of  fighting 
planes  and  an  army  comprising  five  thousand  me 
chanics  and  airmen.  At  dinner  he  was  even  less  lo 
quacious  than  usual,  but  at  length  he  looked  up  to 
say  to  his  personal  aide: 

"I  did  my  duty  and  warned  the  American  naval 
chap.  Of  course  if  he  has  to  put  a  base  in  Dunkirk, 
there  is  no  other  place  where  his  seaplanes  can  take 
off,  but,  my  word,  it's  plain  suicide." 

"  Wliat  has  he  got  for  equipment?  Crude,  I  fancy," 
said  the  other. 

"Rather.  No  machines  of  their  own  —  three  or 
four  dud  French  busses  that  will  drown  their  crews 
—  a  few  huts  to  live  in  —  a  couple  of  young  officers, 
ensigns,  as  the  flying  force." 

"Not  much  to  brag  about,"  replied  the  aide.  "The 
American  Navy  had  better  pull  up  its  socks." 

"Ah,  but  you  miss  the  point,"  exclaimed  the  cap 
tain.  "We  have  had  three  years  to  build  up  our  air 
service.  And  we  were  pretty  rotten  at  the  first  of 
it.  These  Americans  didn't  wait  to  get  their  stuff 
turned  out.  They  jumped  ashore  at  Dunkirk  with 
what  they  had,  as  an  evidence  of  good  faith.  It 
bucked  me  up  a  lot,  just  to  look  'em  over.  The  spirit 
of  the  thing!  That  counts.  Here's  hoping  they  dodge 
the  bombs  until  they  get  a  run  for  their  money." 


162  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

A  few  nights  after  this,  Lieutenant  "Chuck" 
Bevans,  his  two  ensigns,  and  his  hundred  and  fifty 
bluejackets  tumbled  out  when  the  sirens  shrieked 
and  scrambled  into  their  cavern  while  the  Boche 
planes  droned  overhead  and  let  fall  the  wicked  pro 
jectiles  that  exploded  with  terrifying  concussions  and 
great  flashes  of  flame.  Although  aimed  at  the  docks 
and  the  shipping,  most  of  them  went  wide  of  the 
mark,  smashing  through  dwelling-houses  or  tearing 
holes  in  the  pavement.  A  British  cargo  steamer  was 
demolished  no  more  than  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
American  naval  base  and  another  bomb  glanced  from 
the  sloping  roof  of  the  dugout. 

There  followed  a  week  of  clear  weather  with  light 
winds,  and  the  enemy  squadrons  visited  Dunkirk 
every  night,  unloading  their  infernal  freightage  with 
more  enthusiasm  than  accuracy,  but  managing  to 
slay  many  women  and  children  in  the  town,  blowing 
the  stern  off  an  anchored  French  destroyer,  and  mak 
ing  life  most  unhappy  for  the  Yankee  sailormen.  One 
barracks  building  was  splintered  and  a  chasm  of  a 
hole  marked  the  site  of  the  shack  in  which  the  lieu 
tenant  had  lived  the  simple  life.  He  began  to  wonder 
about  that  thirty-day  limit.  There  might  be  some 
thing  in  the  prediction.  The  loss  of  sleep  was  also  try 
ing  to  the  nerves.  A  man  could  n't  keep  it  up  indefi 
nitely  —  working  hard  all  day  and  crowding  into  a 
filthy  dugout  after  dark  while  the  cursed  tumult 
sounded  as  though  the  world  was  tumbling  about  his 
ears. 

The  two  ensigns  were  impatient  and  displayed  irri- 


THE  NET  RESULT  163 

tation.  This  preliminary  programme  was  stupid.  The 
lieutenant  was  awaiting  the  arrival  of  additional  avi 
ators  before  beginning  the  regular  patrol  against  the 
German  submarines  in  the  Channel.  Meanwhile  the 
routine  comprised  a  great  deal  of  drudgery  and  no 
retaliation.  The  unhappy  brace  of  ensigns  were  per 
mitted  to  undertake  practice  flights  in  a  French  sea 
plane  by  way  of  learning  how  to  rise  from  the  narrow 
lane  of  water  between  the  docks,  a  hazardous  per 
formance  which  risked  an  unholy  crash  at  every  at 
tempt.  Enviously  they  watched  the  British  naval  air 
men  soar  far  out  to  sea  in  their  little  fighting  machines 
or  heard  their  yarns  of  U-boats  detected  and  reported 
to  the  surface  fleets  of  destroyers,  trawlers,  and  drift 
ers  which  hastened  to  administer  the  deadly  depth 
bomb  in  a  warfare  that  gave  no  quarter. 

"What  do  you  say  to  suggesting  it  to  Bevans?" 
said  Ensign  Robert  Carnahan,  hopefully  addressing 
his  partner.  "It  is  n't  as  if  we  were  green  at  the  game. 
We  had  a  solid  year's  training  at  home  before  we 
came  to  France  and  I'll  bet  we  can  fly  with  any  of 
these  birds  on  patrol  duty." 

"He  says  he  needs  us  ashore,"  was  the  gloomy  re 
ply,  "and  he  is  none  too  keen  about  drowning  us  until 
he  gets  more  help." 

"But  if  we  stick  around  this  dump  much  longer, 
Bob,  we'll  never  get  action.  The  old  Boche  mighty 
near  scuppered  the  outfit  last  night.  Man,  he  fairly 
ringed  us  with  bombs.  He  is  liable  to  score  a  touch 
down  before  we  beat  it  into  the  dugout  one  of  these 
fine  evenings  and  there  won't  be  enough  left  of  two 


164  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

promising  young  aviators  to  make  a  funeral.  I  am 
certainly  fed  up  with  Dunkirk." 

"You're  on,  Al.  We'll  put  it  up  to  Bevans  at  sup 
per.  One  little  war  flight  and  we  promise  to  be  good." 

The  weary  lieutenant,  who  was  a  Regular  Navy 
man,  inured  to  thankless  duties  and  rigid  discipline, 
knew  what  was  in  the  minds  of  these  boyish  Reserve 
ensigns.  To  them  the  war  was  a  sporting  adventure. 
"Bob"  Carnahan  had  been  a  football  player  of  cam 
pus  renown  and  "Al"  Chew  had  pitched  illustriously 
for  the  nine  of  another  university.  All  they  yearned 
for  now  was  an  opportunity  to  prove  themselves,  to 
gain  a  brief  and  glorious  respite  from  the  routine  of 
the  day's  work.  Lieutenant  "Chuck"  Bevans,  con 
demned  to  serve  as  a  head  carpenter,  mechanic,  and 
taskmaster,  smiled  tolerantly  as  he  observed  the  en 
signs  nudge  each  other  and  whisper  at  the  supper- 
table. 

"How  did  the  old  boat  tune  up  to-day?"  he  in 
quired. 

"  Smooth  as  a  Swiss  watch,"  Carnahan  eagerly  as 
sured  him.  "Plenty  of  pep,  and  a  child  could  have 
handled  her." 

"Some  ship,"  put  in  Ensign  Chew.  "She  did  ninety 
knots  and  was  just  jogging." 

"What  about  machine-gun  practice?"  pursued  the 
lieutenant. 

"We  are  really  good,  sir,"  modestly  answered 
"Bob"  Carnahan.  "If  we  are  ever  lucky  enough  to 
meet  a  German  plane,  I'll  bet  I  can  shoot  the  eye 
brows  off  the  Fritzies." 


THE  NET  RESULT  165 

"I  presume  you  are  a  hundred  per  cent  plus  at 
bombing  submarines,"  amiably  observed  their  com 
mander. 

"Well,  we  let  go  four  dummies  to-day,"  came  from 
Ensign  Alfred  Chew,  "and  every  one  of  'em  would 
have  put  a  hole  through  your  hat." 

"You  are  a  couple  of  shrinking  violets.  It's  all 
wasted,  though,  for  I  made  up  my  mind  to  — " 

"To  turn  down  our  request,"  mourned  Ensign 
Carnahan. 

"We  thought  you  might  let  us  give  Fritz  one  good 
dusting,"  echoed  Ensign  Chew. 

"Stow  the  gab  and  listen,  you  noisy  infants," 
rudely  exclaimed  Lieutenant  Bevans.  "I  made  up 
my  mind  to-day  to  give  you  a  war  flight.  I  expect  to 
'phone  the  British  station  to-night  and  arrange  for  a 
specified  patrol  area.  You  will  be  ready  to  flop  at  day 
light  and  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  souls." 

The  ensigns  beamed  and  decorously  refrained  from 
cheering.  They  decided  to  turn  in  early  and  garner 
all  the  sleep  possible,  hoping  the  Boche  planes  might 
take  a  night  off,  but  a  visitor  appeared  in  the  person 
of  a  French  "ace"  on  leave  in  Dunkirk.  He  was  a  sal 
low,  low-spirited  young  man  in  spite  of  the  honors 
emblazoned  on  his  tunic  —  palms,  stars,  and  crosses 
in  incredible  profusion.  The  conversation  stumbled 
because  he  spoke  no  English,  but  it  was  obvious  that 
he  regarded  the  war  flight  of  the  bold  ensigns  with  a 
tinge  of  pessimism. 

Their  machine?  He  knew  the  type  well.  For  active 
service  it  required  aviators  of  profound  experience. 


166  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

In  the  hands  of  beginners,  alas,  there  had  been  many 
fatalities  along  the  French  coast.  Flying  far  out  over 
the  sea  was  a  different  matter  —  here  the  resplendent 
ace  shrugged  a  shoulder  and  his  gesture  was  sinister. 
If  only  the  Americans  could  wait  for  their  own  sea 
planes  with  which  they  were  so  much  more  familiar! 
Ceremoniously  he  wished  them  good  fortune,  al 
though  plainly  expecting  the  worst,  and  stalked  out 
into  the  gloom. 

"A  merry  guy,  that,"  murmured  Ensign  Carnahan 
as  he  smothered  a  yawn.  "He  will  be  all  upset  if  we 
come  back  alive.  I  hate  to  disappoint  him." 

"He  had  to  begin,  didn't  he,  Bob?  These  wise 
birds  have  been  at  it  so  long  that  they  can't  remem 
ber  anything  else." 

The  weather  next  morning  was  uncommonly  kind, 
a  bright  sky  with  a  light  breeze  which  dispelled  the 
Channel  mist.  The  French  trawlers  were  plodding 
seaward  to  sweep  their  appointed  routes  and  a  divi 
sion  of  British  destroyers  fled  from  the  harbor  on 
some  mysterious  errand  of  their  own.  Lieutenant 
Bevans  inspected  the  seaplane  with  the  most  scrupu 
lous  care  before  he  ordered  the  waiting  squad  of  blue 
jackets  to  lower  it  from  the  slip-way  into  the  basin. 
It  was,  in  fact,  a  flying  boat,  with  a  whaleback  hull 
and  a  wing  spread  of  eighty  feet. 

Ensign  Carnahan  crawled  into  the  pilot's  seat  for 
ward  and  "Al"  Chew  tucked  himself  into  the  cock 
pit  aft,  where  he  acted  as  observer  and  manipulated 
the  machine  gun.  Upon  a  chart  were  laid  out  their 
courses  and  bearings  for  the  patrol  tour,  and  they  had 


THE  NET  RESULT  167 

rejoiced  to  find  that  they  were  to  swing  toward  the 
Belgian  coast  where  there  was  always  the  chance 
of  encountering  an  enemy  plane  or  two  on  scouting 
duty.  Sternly  Lieutenant  Be  vans  informed  them  that 
they  were  not  to  go  surging  off  in  search  of  trouble. 
Air  combats  were  not  their  particular  job.  They  were, 
first  of  all,  to  patrol  for  enemy  submarines  and  help 
safeguard  the  lanes  of  merchant  traffic.  The  ensigns 
blithely  promised  obedience  and  then  the  roar  of  the 
propeller  cut  short  the  farewells. 

The  graceful  machine  skittered  over  the  surface  of 
the  water,  flinging  clouds  of  spray,  swiftly  gathered 
flying  speed,  and  rose  clear,  climbing  a  thousand  feet 
before  it  swerved  to  the  northward.  The  engine  sang 
powerfully  without  miss  or  falter.  The  two  ensigns 
were  buoyantly  happy.  No  more  than  a  few  minutes 
had  passed  when  they  were  able  to  descry  the  flat 
shore  of  Belgium,  scarcely  distinguishable  from  the 
sea,  and  the  hazy  mass  of  buildings  and  tall  chimneys 
identified  as  Ostend.  Mere  specks  against  the  sky,  two 
enemy  planes  hovered  above  the  enslaved  city  from 
whose  harbor  the  German  submarines  crept  out  on 
their  infamous  business.  Reluctantly  "Bob"  Carna- 
han  steered  wide  to  sweep  farther  away  from  the 
coast,  toward  the  middle  of  Dover  Strait.  Bombing 
Ostend  was  the  job  of  the  squadrons  of  huge  Hand- 
ley-Page  machines  from  the  British  station  at  Dun 
kirk  and  they  attended  to  it  exceedingly  well. 

Keen-eyed,  vigilant,  the  two  ensigns  scrutinized 
the  sea  which  unrolled  far  beneath  them  like  a  brown 
carpet  flecked  with  little  flashes  of  foam,  for  once  un- 


168  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

vexed  by  boisterous  winds.  Crowded  transports  and 
grimy  cargo  boats  were  traversing  the  highway  be 
tween  England  and  France,  moving  in  safety  because 
the  naval  power  of  Germany  was  impotent  to  thwart 
them.  Toy-like,  the  fleets  of  drifters  and  destroyers 
steamed  restlessly  to  and  fro  on  the  surface  patrol. 
The  ambushed  U-boats,  however,  appeared  to  be  en 
gaged  elsewhere,  for  there  was  never  the  glint  of  a 
periscope  with  the  telltale  furrow  spreading  in  its 
wake,  or  the  glimpse  of  a  conning  tower  as  it  broke 
water. 

An  empty  quest  for  the  American  air  patrol,  but 
such  was  the  fortune  of  war,  and  one  could  not  rea 
sonably  hope  to  bag  a  submarine  every  day!  Before 
the  eager  ensigns  realized  it,  they  had  been  in  the  air 
two  hours  and  soon  they  would  have  to  be  winging  it 
back  to  port.  The  breeze  was  a  trifle  stronger,  they 
noticed,  and  the  sky  had  become  overcast.  This  win 
ter  weather  was  apt  to  be  treacherous.  Carnahan 
eyed  the  sodden  cloud-banks  which  were  massing 
swiftly,  and  a  gust  brought  a  spatter  of  rain.  He 
turned  to  wave  a  hand  at  his  comrade  in  the  rear 
cockpit  and  Ensign  Chew  nodded  assent.  Another 
gale  might  be  brewing  in  the  Channel  and  the  rain 
and  mist  were  apt  to  close  down  like  a  curtain. 

Soon  after  the  course  was  laid  for  Dunkirk  the 
coast  became  invisible,  obscured  in  gray  vapor,  and 
Carnahan  studied  his  compass  with  some  slight  un 
easiness.  Rapidly  the  task  of  holding  the  flying  boat 
true  to  the  proper  bearings  became  more  difficult. 
The  wind  had  shifted  so  that  it  caught  the  sensitive 


THE  NET  RESULT  169 

craft  on  the  beam  instead  of  ahead,  and  she  drifted 
away  to  leeward  while  the  hull  swayed  and  plunged 
to  the  lift  and  swoop  of  the  wide  wings.  To  ease  the 
strain  the  pilot  was  compelled  to  steer  dead  into  the 
wind  whenever  the  sudden  flurries  whistled  through 
the  struts  with  a  menacing  note.  Instead  of  holding 
a  bee-line  for  Dunkirk,  the  laboring  craft  was  blown 
toward  the  wider  reaches  of  the  Channel  and  the 
sense  of  direction  was  confused  now  that  the  land 
marks  were  invisible. 

The  engine  had  behaved  well  until  now,  but  the 
excessive  vibration  seemed  to  portend  trouble.  The 
boat  was  not  new  and  this  ordeal  of  rough  weather 
was  testing  every  part  to  the  uttermost.  Carnahan 
was  warned  by  the  irregular  pulsation  of  the  motor, 
the  break  in  the  rhythm,  and  a  perceptible  loss  of 
power.  He  could  not  leave  his  station,  but  Ensign 
Chew,  also  suspecting  a  mishap,  was  desperately  at 
tempting  to  investigate  the  engine  while  he  hung  on 
by  his  eyelids  and  displayed  the  agility  of  an  acrobat. 
Presently  the  mechanical  malady  revealed  alarming 
symptoms.  The  motor  almost  died  and  picked  up 
again  with  a  languid  flutter.  The  craft  coasted  toward 
the  sea  in  a  long  slant,  recovered  itself,  flew  on  an 
even  keel  for  a  short  distance,  and  again  dipped 
downward. 

Near  at  hand  the  water  was  seen  to  be  perilously 
rough.  There  was  no  choice,  however,  and  after  a 
final  struggle  to  climb  clear,  the  unlucky  cruiser,  no 
longer  a  flying  boat,  poked  her  blunt  nose  into  a 
white-crested  wave  and  tried  to  submerge  entirely. 


170  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

The  next  sea  washed  over  the  hull,  half -filling  it.  The 
shock  of  the  first  impact  was  so  violent  that  the  two 
ensigns  were  pitched  forward,  and  while  they  groped 
to  recover  themselves  the  salt  water  almost  strangled 
them.  Surprised  at  finding  the  old  boat  still  intact 
and  afloat,  they  sputtered  and  swore  and  baled  furi 
ously  with  canvas  buckets.  The  boat  was  making  a 
gallant  battle  for  survival,  breasting  the  waves  more 
staunchly  than  the  castaways  had  dared  to  hope.  The 
motion  was  wild  and  dizzy,  one  wing  dipping  under 
while  the  other  reared  skyward,  and  the  spray  broke 
in  sheets  over  the  plunging  hull,  but  the  fragile  struc 
ture  somehow  held  together  and  refused  to  fill  and 
founder. 

Ensign  Alfred  Chew  crawled  forward,  shook  the 
water  from  helmet  and  goggles,  and  shouted  in  his 
shipmate's  ear: 

"Are  we  down-hearted?  It  was  the  gasoline  feed 
pipe  —  cracked  and  then  jarred  off  close  to  the  pump. 
A  clean  break  and  there's  no  mending  it.  You  can't 
tape  it.  And  pitching  about  on  our  heads  this  way  we 
can't  get  the  bally  thing  apart." 

"Right  you  are,  Al.  And  never  a  vessel  in  sight  to 
pick  us  up.  The  place  was  alive  with  'em  a  little  while 
ago.  Better  get  a  pigeon  started  right  away." 

The  boat  lacked  wireless  equipment,  but  the  two 
precious  pigeons,  although  sadly  bedraggled,  had  es 
caped  drowning,  and  Ensign  Chew  extracted  one 
from  the  small  box  and  warmed  and  caressed  it  while 
Carnahan  scribbled  the  message  for  help  and  slipped 
it  into  the  aluminum  cartridge  which  they  clasped  on 


THE  NET  RESULT  171 

the  bird's  leg.  It  fluttered  in  a  dazed  manner  when 
released,  hovered  over  the  drifting  machine,  flew  in  a 
zigzag  course  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  sped  in 
the  direction  of  Dunkirk. 

"We'll  let  the  other  one  go  in  an  hour  or  so  if  we 
are  still  messing  about  here,"  said  Carnahan.  "Fish 
out  the  thermos  bottle  and  the  sandwiches,  Al.  In 
this  thick  weather  we  are  liable  to  be  hard  to  find." 

They  ate  and  drank  with  frugal  care,  reserving 
part  of  the  emergency  ration.  Drenched  and  chilled 
to  the  bone,  such  exposure  as  this  must  soon  exhaust 
their  vitality.  Huddled  together  in  the  forward  cock 
pit  they  began  sending  up  distress  signals,  using 
green  Very  lights  which,  in  clear  weather,  might  have 
been  visible  for  several  miles.  In  this  gray  smother  of 
mist  and  rain  and  spindrift,  however,  such  signals 
were  pitifully  futile.  The  boat  was  wrenched  and 
twisted  by  the  immense  leverage  of  wings  which 
yawed  and  tripped  in  an  insane  see-saw.  It  seemed  as 
though  they  must  be  torn  from  the  hull,  leaving  it  to 
capsize.  There  was  neither  sight  nor  sound  of  ship 
ping  and  the  steady  pressure  of  the  wind  was  carry 
ing  them  down  the  Channel. 

"That  French  ace  with  the  chronic  grouch  did  n't 
guess  so  far  wrong,"  admitted  Ensign  Chew  between 
his  chattering  teeth.  "He  was  a  Jonah.  I  did  n't  like 
his  make-up." 

"Aces?"  exclaimed  Carnahan  with  a  feeble  grin. 
"We  are  the  original  pair  of  two-spots.  That  dugout 
of  ours  looks  like  a  cozy  corner  to  me." 

Talk  was  infrequent  for  some  time  after  this.  Shiv- 


172  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

ering,  benumbed,  they  baled  the  cockpit  at  intervals 
and  stared  into  the  gloomy  weather,  silently  wonder 
ing  how  long  they  could  hope  to  live  through  such  a 
tragic  ordeal  as  this.  They  were  Navy  men,  but  with 
little  experience  afloat,  and  the  wretched  motion  of 
their  derelict  craft  afflicted  them  with  seasickness. 
They  were  unspeakably  miserable,  too  much  so  to  be 
frightened. 

The  day  wore  on  to  noon.  There  was  a  bit  of  com 
fort  in  the  fact  that  seas  grew  no  worse  while  the 
wind  had  sensibly  diminished  and  the  sky  was  less 
somber.  Survivors  of  torpedoed  merchant  ships  had 
suffered  worse  things  in  open  boats,  no  doubt,  or 
washed  about  on  rafts  for  days,  and  this  occurred  to 
the  two  ensigns.  They  had  no  idea  of  whimpering, 
but  were  grimly  hanging  on.  If  the  pigeons  had 
reached  Dunkirk  a  vessel  must  have  been  sent  out  in 
haste,  but  nothing  was  seen  of  it. 

"We  have  properly  lost  ourselves,"  said  Carna- 
han,  "and  if  we  are  picked  up  it  will  be  a  matter  of 
sheer  luck." 

"A  chilly  proposition,  if  we  have  to  make  a  night 
of  it,"  replied  young  Chew,  "but  we'll  stick  on  some 
how." 

The  wind  dropped  to  a  harmless  breeze  and  the  sea 
was  almost  tranquil,  but  the  wrecked  seaplane  floated 
soggily  and  the  hull  leaked  like  a  basket.  Carnahan 
was  trying  to  calk  a  crack  with  strips  of  canvas  and  a 
pocket-knife  when  his  comrade  clutched  him  by  the 
arm  and  hoarsely  implored  him  to  look  astern.  Spell 
bound  they  gazed  and  their  mouths  hung  open.  En- 


THE  NET  RESULT  173 

sign  Alfred  Chew  rubbed  his  eyes  and  muttered 
strong  language.  "Bob"  Carnahan  clenched  his  fists 
and  could  find  no  words  to  fit  his  impassioned  emo 
tions. 

Moving  very  slowly  and  protruding  no  more  than 
two  feet  above  the  surface,  a  bit  of  metal  pipe  left  a 
ripple  in  its  wake.  The  upper  end  of  it  was  an  elbow 
into  which  was  fitted  a  lens  and  the  glitter  of  this 
glass  disc  suggested  the  living  eye  of  some  very  for 
midable  sea  monster.  It  inspected  the  drifting  sea 
plane  and  the  forlorn  passengers  with  a  scrutiny  de 
liberate  and  leisurely,  with  a  cold-blooded,  impersonal 
detachment,  pausing  when  abreast  of  the  American 
flag  which  was  painted  on  the  yellow  hull  of  the  fly 
ing  boat. 

"You  were  so  darned  anxious  to  find  a  periscope, 
Bob,"  muttered  Ensign  Chew.  "There  it  is,  all  right. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"Fritz  is  giving  us  the  once-over,  Al,  old  man. 
That  can't  be  one  of  our  own  submarines  or  it  would 
come  up  and  hail  us  and  show  a  little  human  interest. 
An  interesting  situation,  is  n't  it?" 

"You  put  it  mildly.  It  is  almost  sensational. 
What's  the  idea?  Will  he  stand  by  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  us  drown,  or  will  he  ram  our  boat  and  finish  the 
job  at  once?" 

"You  have  another  guess  or  two.  He  may  pop  up 
alongside  and  snatch  us  aboard  as  prisoners." 

"I  had  n't  thought  of  that,"  dolefully  replied  the 
other  ensign.  "A  couple  of  American  naval  officers 
might  be  considered  good  hunting.  That  does  n't  ap- 


174  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

peal  to  me,  Bob.  This  surrender  stuff  is  n't  taught  in 
our  Service,  not  while  your  ship  is  afloat  and  under 
your  feet." 

"Here  we  are,  with  a  pair  of  perfectly  good  hun 
dred-pound  bombs  still  hitched  to  our  old  scow  and 
we  can't  drop  'em  on  Fritz,"  was  Al's  lament.  "We 
might  crumple  his  periscope  with  a  burst  from  the 
machine  gun." 

"He  would  poke  up  another  tube  and  then  smash 
through  us  bows  on.  I  wish  he  would  either  beat  it  or 
finish  up  his  dirty  work.  I  dislike  being  stared  at.  It 
makes  me  nervous." 

The  prowling  U-boat  had  circled  the  crippled  sea 
plane  by  this  time,  still  submerged  as  though  fearing 
a  trap.  Uncanny  it  was  to  watch  the  creeping  peri 
scope  and  to  picture  the  German  officer  standing  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  long  tube  in  the  brilliantly 
lighted  compartment,  perhaps  jesting  at  the  plight 
of  the  verdammte  Yankee  aviators  who  had  sworn 
to  destroy  the  so-glorious  submarines  of  the  uncon 
querable  Vaterland.  It  was  this  brutal,  gloating  delay 
that  infuriated  the  two  ensigns.  They  were  being 
played  with  as  a  cat  torments  a  mouse.  The  thing 
was  unsportsmanlike,  inhuman,  and  "Bob"  Carna- 
han  was  in  no  mood  for  discretion. 

"We  lose,  Al,  either  way  we  play  it,"  he  growled. 
"I'd  sooner  drown  than  throw  up  my  hands  to  that 
dirty  murderer.  Crawl  aft  to  the  machine  gun  and 
we  '11  wait  for  his  next  move.  By  Jove,  I  believe  he 's 
coming  up." 

The  submarine  showed  the  dripping  top  of  the 


THE  NET  RESULT  175 

conning  tower  and  presently  the  long  deck  heaved 
in  sight,  the  water  washing  over  it  like  a  bit  of  reef. 
Bold  against  the  gray  paint  stood  out  the  lettering 
—  "U-62."  The  unpleasant  apparition  fascinated  the 
two  ensigns.  It  was  very  much  as  though  a  bad  dream 
had  come  true.  For  the  moment  they  felt  more  curi 
osity  than  alarm.  In  all  their  glib  talk  of  strafing  Fritz 
it  had  not  occurred  to  them  that  Fritz  might  take 
a  hand  at  the  game.  He  was  not  apt  to  feel  kindly 
toward  the  allied  seaplanes  which  hunted  and  bombed 
him  without  mercy,  earnestly  seeking  to  blow  him  to 
kingdom  come  with  all  hands. 

Ensign  Chew  had  cuddled  close  to  his  machine 
gun.  It  was  obvious  that  he  yearned  to  let  fly  at  the 
first  close-cropped  German  head  which  should  show 
itself  above  the  screen  of  the  tiny  bridge  on  top  of 
the  conning  tower.  "Bob"  Carnahan  had  learned  to 
know  his  companion  as  an  impulsive  youth  who  was 
likely  to  let  the  consequences  go  hang,  and  he  there 
fore  shouted  a  caution  to  hold  steady  and  avoid 
trouble  until  the  enemy  had  shown  his  hand.  The 
vindictive  Chew  scowled  at  the  U-boat  and  glumly 
obeyed  orders. 

They  heard  the  clang  of  metal  as  the  round  hatch- 
plates  were  flung  back,  unsealing  the  submarine  and 
opening  an  exit  through  the  conning  tower.  There 
emerged  into  view  a  burly  figure  of  a  man  in  oilskins 
who  wore  an  officer's  cap.  Two  sailors  clambered  up 
after  him  and  rested  their  rifles  upon  the  railing  of 
the  bridge.  He  raised  the  binoculars  which  hung  from 
his  neck  by  a  strap  and  subjected  the  two  castaways 


176  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

to  critical  inspection.  Then  he  bawled  through  a 
megaphone: 

"I  vill  you  alive  take  as  prisoners.  It  iss  a  gross 
kindness,  so?  I  haf  not  forgetted  the  King  Stephen 
trawler  what  left  the  crew  of  a  Zeppelin  to  be 
drownded  in  the  Nort'  Sea,  but  a  German  officer  vas 
a  gentleman  always.  He  makes  war  not  like  the  dis 
honorable  English." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  temper  of  Ensign  "Bob " 
Carnahan  who  threw  up  his  head  at  the  challenge 
and  shouted  back: 

"German  gentlemen  —  hell!  Do  you  think  we 
have  forgotten  the  Lusitania?" 

The  florid  face  of  the  submarine  commander  turned 
a  richer  hue  as  he  turned  and  said  something  to  the 
two  sailors  who  filled  the  small  space  beside  him. 
They  stood  at  attention,  the  rifles  ready  for  action. 

"Yump  in  the  wasser  and  swim  to  my  boat,  sehr 
schnell"  was  the  command  hurled  at  the  American 
ensigns.  The  voice  was  harsh  and  unsteady  with  anger. 

"We  don't  know  how  to  swim,"  lied  "Al"  Chew. 
"You  will  have  to  send  over  and  get  us." 

Carnahan  had  ceased  to  gaze  at  the  submarine. 
His  attention  had  shifted  for  the  moment,  but  the 
horizon  was  still  empty  with  nothing  to  indicate  that 
a  friendly  vessel  might  intervene  in  time  to  save 
them.  He  was  staring  into  the  sea  quite  close  at  hand, 
but  the  uneasy  waves  merely  disclosed  a  drifting  bit 
of  wood  like  a  fragment  of  a  spar.  Tense  and  alert 
with  some  sudden  excitement  he  passed  the  word  to 
the  rear  cockpit: 


THE  NET  RESULT  177 

"That's  the  way,  Al.  String  him  along.  Play  for 
time.  Anything  to  keep  him  just  where  he  is." 

"What  is  the  idea,  Bob?" 

"Never  mind.  I  can't  explain  now,  but  there  is 
about  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  we  may  be  able 
to  pull  something  off.  Annoy  the  *  honorable  German 
gentleman.'  Insult  him,  and  go  as  far  as  you  like,  but 
keep  away  from  that  machine  gun  unless  he  shoots 
first." 

Again  the  submarine  commander  yelled  the  order 
to  surrender  by  jumping  into  the  sea,  but  the  ob 
streperous  Yankees  persisted  in  debating  the  ques 
tion.  The  U-boat  carried  a  collapsible  canvas  skiff, 
argued  Carnahan,  and  it  was  the  plain  duty  of  the 
captors  to  launch  it  and  take  off  the  prisoners,  who 
were  already  exhausted  and  too  feeble  to  stay  afloat. 

"But  you  haf  life-jackets  on  yourselves,  stupids!" 
yelled  the  exasperated  Teuton  as  he  snatched  a  rifle 
from  a  sailor  and  flourished  it  wildly. 

"Filled  with  sawdust  instead  of  cork!  Yankee 
graft!"  pleasantly  explained  Carnahan.  "You  have 
read  your  own  newspapers,  so  you  know  all  about  it." 

"How  perfectly  lovely!"  applauded  Ensign  Chew 
from  his  end  of  the  derelict.  "The  square-headed 
boob  actually  believes  it.  Better  be  ready  to  duck, 
Bob.  He  is  sincerely  peeved." 

This  diagnosis  was  accurate.  Presumably  to 
frighten  them  into  prompt  obedience,  the  irate  com 
mander  threw  up  the  rifle  and  pulled  trigger.  A  bullet 
whistled  over  Carnahan's  head  and  another  drilled  a 
hole  in  the  coaming  at  his  elbow.  The  result  was  to- 


178  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

tally  unlocked  for  aboard  the  German  submarine. 
Instead  of  diving  into  the  sea  with  a  cry  of  *'Kam- 
erad,"  the  impetuous  Ensign  Chew  emitted  a  joyous 
war-whoop.  The  enemy  had  opened  fire  on  the  Ameri 
can  flag.  Tradition  knew  but  one  reply,  from  John 
Paul  Jones  to  David  Farragut.  So  it  appeared,  at 
least,  to  young  Alfred  Chew  as  he  instantaneously 
cleared  for  action  and  sighted  the  machine  gun  to 
sweep  the  bridge  of  the  submarine.  With  a  vicious 
rat-tat-tat  a  stream  of  bullets  sought  the  mark. 

The  wrecked  seaplane  was  an  unsteady  gun-plat 
form  which  was  all  that  saved  the  German  com 
mander  and  his  two  sailors  from  being  so  many  per 
forated  ruins.  A  tattered  wing  of  the  aircraft  tripped 
in  a  wave  just  as  the  ensign  fired  and  the  abrupt 
check  marred  his  intentions.  He  shot  a  trifle  low  and 
the  bullets  spattered  the  conning  tower.  In  a  twink 
ling  the  bridge  was  vacant.  It  was  incredible  that  a 
burly  commander  in  oilskins  and  two  sturdy  German 
sailors  could  have  vanished  through  the  little  round 
hatch  without  jamming  together  and  sticking  fast. 
By  way  of  an  encore,  Ensign  Chew  fired  another 
burst  and  lavishly  punctuated  the  distasteful  letter 
ing  —  "U-62."  The  bullets  rattled  against  the  thin 
steel  plating  like  pebbles  on  a  tin  roof. 

"They  can't  pop  out  on  deck  again,"  hopefully 
observed  the  American  gunner.  "The  lid  is  on  that 
outfit.  But  I'm  afraid  I  have  spilled  the  beans,  Bob, 
old  man.  You  told  me  to  sit  tight  and  wait  'em  out.  I 
just  could  n't  help  cutting  loose  when  he  tried  to  pot 
you," 


THE  NET  RESULT  179 

"Thanks.  I  don't  believe  you  have  spoiled  the 
show,"  Carnahan  replied,  with  an  unruffled  mien. 
"We  could  n't  have  beguiled  him  with  conversation 
any  longer.  He  turned  nasty.  You  have  bottled  them 
up,  sure  enough.  Not  a  man  of  them  will  dare  to  lift 
a  hatch  to  get  out  and  serve  a  gun.  And  they  won't 
care  to  waste  an  expensive  torpedo  on  us." 

"He  will  ram  us  right  away,  then.  Nothing  doing 
with  my  machine  gun.  A  can-opener  would  be  more 
useful." 

Ensign  Carnahan  was  again  absorbed  in  staring  at 
the  water  where  the  bit  of  painted  wood  still  floated 
within  range  of  his  vision.  The  seaplane  had  drifted 
with  the  wind  and  the  German  submarine  had  forged 
a  little  way  ahead,  so  that  the  relative  positions  were 
altered.  The  tossing  fragment  of  spar,  or  whatever  it 
was,  now  lay  between  the  two  crafts.  Carnahan  beck 
oned  and  Ensign  Chew  scrambled  forward  to  join 
him.  They  paid  no  heed  to  the  submarine  which 
slowly  gathered  steerage-way  under  power  of  her 
surface  engines. 

"Yes,  Fritz  will  ram  us,"  said  Carnahan,  as  though 
thinking  aloud,  "but  he  is  n't  a  bit  anxious  to  drown 
the  pair  of  us.  He  may  be  under  orders,  as  I  figure  it 
out,  to  capture  any  American  naval  officers  alive.  He 
behaves  that  way,  at  any  rate.  So  if  he  comes  ahead 
to  smash  our  old  boat  into  kindling  he  will  move  at 
slow  speed  and  then  try  to  fish  us  up  out  of  the 
wet." 

"Good  dope,"  agreed  Ensign  Chew.  "That  ma 
chine  gun  of  ours  makes  it  impossible  for  him  to  turn 


180  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  trick  in  any  other  way.  Too  good  to  be  true,  Bob, 
but  it  does  look  to  me  as  if  we  had  a  chance  to  win. 
You 're  bright." 

"Watch  it,  Al!  Look  sharp!  When  the  next  wave 
breaks,  just  beyond  the  floating  stick,"  breathlessly 
exclaimed  Carnahan. 

Close  to  the  surface  there  appeared  for  an  instant 
what  looked  like  a  string  of  croquet  balls,  for  shape 
and  size.  They  were  linked  together  in  some  manner, 
rising,  then  dipping,  invisible  excepting  for  such  a 
fleeting  glimpse  as  this.  The  ensigns  looked  out  to 
measure  the  course  of  the  submarine  which  was  turn 
ing  in  a  wide  arc  to  point  her  bow  at  the  helpless  sea 
plane.  Yes,  the  stratagem  of  delay  had  been  nicely 
timed.  Wind  and  tide  had  set  the  three  factors  of  the 
equation  in  the  proper  relative  positions.  Carnahan 
had  maneuvered  against  almost  hopeless  odds,  but 
the  gods  of  chance  were  kind  to  him  and  the  luck  of 
the  American  Navy  held  good. 

"Slow,  Fritzie!  Left  rudder  now,  and  then  straight 
ahead,"  implored  "Al"  Chew,  his  weather-cracked 
lips  quivering  with  excitement. 

"He  can't  miss  it  now,"  croaked  Carnahan.  "Our 
side  is  turned  square  toward  him,  and  that's  where 
he  wants  to  hit  and  rip  the  old  bus  wide  open.  I'll  bet 
you  a  hundred  even  he  never  gets  here." 

"You're  on,  Bob.  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  lose. 
Oh,  boy !  Here  he  comes,  dead  on  the  mark,  and  as 
wicked  as  sin!" 

The  long  gray  hull  of  the  predatory  U-boat  was 
moving  sluggishly  while  the  sea  frothed  across  the 


THE  NET  RESULT  181 

deck.  It  displayed  no  indications  of  human  life  or 
guidance.  Monstrous,  slinking,  it  profaned  the  brave 
and  manly  traditions  of  blue  water.  The  youthful 
American  officers,  forgetting  how  cold  and  wet  and 
fatigued  they  were,  oblivious  even  of  the  grave  peril 
that  menaced  them,  watched  the  enemy  draw  near. 
They  were,  in  fact,  supremely  happy,  for  this  was  the 
great  adventure,  the  sporting  chance. 

"Supposing  the  scheme  does  n't  work,"  whispered 
Chew.  "It  may  fail  to  connect." 

"Then  it's  good-night,"  said  Carnahan.  He  gulped 
as  he  spoke. 

The  U-boat  was  drawing  near  the  tossing  bit  of 
spar  and  that  curious  string  of  little  globes  fastened 
all  in  a  row  which  so  closely  resemble  croquet  balls. 
To  the  German  commander  and  the  helmsman  be 
hind  the  thick  bull's-eye  windows  of  the  conning 
tower  these  harmless  particles  of  flotsam  were  no 
doubt  invisible.  Undeviatingly  the  submarine  held 
its  course  until  the  swaying,  half-submerged  row  of 
balls  were  directly  athwart  the  rounded  bow.  "Bob" 
Carnahan  clasped  his  comrade  around  the  neck  and 
they  danced  in  water  up  to  their  knees. 

The  nose  of  the  submarine  surged  under  between 
two  waves  and  picked  up  the  odd  cluster  of  balls. 
They  clung  to  the  deck  instead  of  being  washed  off 
and  many  more  of  them  appeared,  dragged  from  be 
neath  the  surface,  fathom  after  fathom  all  linked  to 
gether  in  a  mesh  work  of  tarred  cords.  And  attached 
to  this  system  of  floats  was  a  vast  net  fashioned  of 
wire  cable  which  had  been  suspended  deep  down  in 


182  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  sea.  It  trailed  past  the  sides  of  the  submarine  and 
wrapped  itself  about  the  hull  before  the  startled  Ger 
man  commander  could  realize  the  danger  or  reverse 
his  engines. 

The  net  clung  to  its  quarry  like  the  tentacles  of 
an  octopus.  It  was  strongly,  cunningly  fashioned, 
yet  so  light  and  pliant  that  it  entangled  itself  with 
any  moving  object  unlucky  enough  to  encounter  the 
trap.  In  this  instance  the  net  accomplished  what  was 
expected  of  it,  for  the  submarine  failed  to  check  its 
headway  until  the  whirling  propellers  had  become 
wound  up  in  the  tenacious  fabric.  The  predicament 
was  precisely  like  that  of  a  fly  in  a  spider's  web.  To 
struggle  was  to  make  matters  so  much  worse.  The 
destruction  of  the  wrecked  seaplane  had  ceased  to 
interest  the  German  officers  and  crew. 

"I  win  a  hundred  off  you,"  cried  "Bob"  Carna- 
han,  pounding  his  friend  on  the  back.  "We  pulled  it 
off  —  so  far  — but  here 's  hoping  and  praying  for  the 
second  act." 

"If  he  has  sense  enough  to  stay  quiet,  just  as  he  is, 
the  beggar  can  set  his  men  to  hacking  away  with  axes 
and  maybe  clear  himself,"  anxiously  suggested  En 
sign  Chew.  "I  guess  I  had  better  put  a  crimp  in  that 
little  stunt." 

He  hastily  returned  to  his  machine  gun  and  trained 
it  on  the  conning  tower,  thereby  anticipating  the 
movements  of  the  German  crew.  One  of  them  cau 
tiously  raised  his  head  above  the  bridge  screen  and 
young  Chew  riddled  the  strip  of  canvas  with  a  rattling 
fusillade.  It  was  to  be  conjectured  that  exposure  of 


THE  NET  RESULT  183 

this  kind  was  indubitably  fatal.  The  attempt  to  gain 
the  deck  was  unanimously  abandoned. 

"We  have  bagged  a  submarine,  but  we  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  it,"  complained  Carnahan.  "I  might 
swim  over  and  ask  'em  to  surrender,  but  what's  the 
use?  I  am  still  expecting  the  grand  finale,  but  it 
seems  to  be  delayed  or  something." 

"He  will  fill  his  tanks  and  submerge,"  argued  Chew. 
"  He  can  drop  down  forty  or  fifty  feet  and  let  the  sweep 
of  the  tide  carry  him  clear  of  us  and  our  nifty  machine 
gun.  Then  he  can  come  up  and  try  to  cut  himself  clear, 
or  maybe  he'll  sit  on  the  bottom  until  dark." 

"If  he  does  n't  drag  that  little  spar  buoy  under 
with  him  he  will  be  out  of  luck.  It  will  give  our  sur 
face  patrols  a  clue  to  locate  him.  The  buoy  caught 
my  eye  first  thing.  That  was  how  I  happened  to  look 
for  the  net.  I  saw  the  Admiralty  shops  at  Dover 
where  they  manufacture  the  stuff  —  went  all  through 
'em  with  a  British  Navy  pal." 

They  beheld  the  baffled  U-boat  sink  lower  until 
the  deck  had  vanished  and  the  conning  tower  was 
lapped  by  the  sea.  With  negative  buoyancy  es 
tablished,  the  commander  risked  starting  his  motors 
in  order  that  a  thrust  ahead  might  give  his  boat  a 
downward  slant  and  so  carry  her  to  the  desired 
depth.  Possibly  he  hoped  that  the  screws  might 
thresh  themselves  clear  of  the  enveloping  net.  Ap 
parently  the  attempt  was  successful.  The  conning 
tower,  then  the  slender  periscopes,  moving  slowly, 
were  seen  to  pass  from  sight  and  the  sea  boiled  white 
to  mark  the  plunge. 


184  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Ensign  Carnahan  sighed,  ungratefully  ignoring  the 
fact  that  he  had  just  gained  his  liberty  and  perhaps 
his  life. 

"Wouldn't  that  break  your  heart,  Al?  He  be 
longed  to  us.  You  see,  I  felt  absolutely  certain  that 
he  was  going  to  blow  himself  up  —  once  he  ran  afoul 
of  that  net.  The  British  have  invented  a  new  mine 
for  this  special  purpose  —  a  cute  little  package  of 
TNT  which  is  tied  to  the  bottom  of  the  nets,  about 
fifty  feet  apart.  They  explode  on  contact.  I  watched 
a  hundred  women  putting  'em  together  in  Dover. 
Maybe  this  net  of  ours  had  no  mines  on  it.  If  a 
U-boat  so  much  as  touches  one  of  these  contraptions 
when  she  gets  wrapped  up  in  a  net,  it's  — " 

A  terrific  explosion  flung  the  two  young  men  head 
long.  The  concussion  fairly  lifted  the  water-logged 
hull  of  the  seaplane.  It  simply  fell  apart  like  a  water 
melon  dropped  on  a  pavement.  Bewildered,  the  two 
ensigns  found  themselves  swimming  amid  the  wreck 
age.  Freed  of  the  weight  of  the  engine,  a  side  of 
the  boat  came  bobbing  up  and  floated  as  a  raft 
to  which  Carnahan  clung.  Chew  attached  himself 
to  a  part  of  the  bow  in  which  the  air  chamber  was 
intact.  They  lashed  these  fragments  together  and 
managed  to  haul  their  bodies  half  out  of  water. 
During  this  struggle  for  existence  they  were  conscious 
that  the  sea  was  tremendously  agitated,  churned  into 
muddy  whirlpools  which  subsided  in  greasy  combers 
that  rolled  without  breaking.  The  air  reeked  with 
the  heavy  smell  of  crude  oil  and  a  dirty  litter  of  debris 
was  smeared  over  a  slowly  spreading  area. 


THE  NET  RESULT  185 


"Bob"  Carnahan  dashed  the  spray  from  his 
eyes  and  vainly  looked  for  survivors  of  the  U-62. 
It  was  Ensign  Chew  who  first  caught  sight  of  a 
body,  which  was  washing  past  him  no  more  than  a 
dozen  yards  distant.  Dead,  of  course,  he  concluded, 
but  one  arm  seemed  to  move  of  its  own  volition  and 
the  man  was  floating  face  upward.  The  ensign  rec 
ognized  the  commander  of  the  lost  submarine  and 
swam  to  reach  him.  Carnahan  splashed  in  his  wake 
and  together  they  supported  the  insensible  German 
until  he  could  be  towed  to  the  rude  raft  and  lifted 
thereupon.  His  head  was  badly  gashed  and  he 
breathed  ever  so  feebly,  but  there  was  life  in  him. 

Fortunately  the  succor  so  long  delayed  was  now 
close  at  hand.  The  castaways  could  not  have  lived 
through  another  hour  in  this  icy  water.  They  had 
come  to  the  end  of  their  strength.  It  was  a  British 
destroyer  that  sighted  them  and  approached  cau 
tiously,  as  though  picking  a  course,  instead  of  tear 
ing  along  at  its  usual  foaming  gait.  A  boat  was  low 
ered  and  the  sympathetic  seamen  were  about  to  lift 
Ensign  "Bob"  Carnahan  over  the  gunwale  when 
he  hoarsely  protested : 

"The  prisoner  first,  if  you  please,  and  be  mighty 
careful  of  him.  He  is  the  net  result." 

Whisked  aboard  the  destroyer,  the  two  ensigns 
were  thawed  out  beside  the  ward-room  stove.  The 
skipper  insisted  that  they  be  tucked  into  bed,  but 
they  politely  refused,  and  in  borrowed  clothes  they 
told  their  wondrous  yarn  to  a  group  of  rosy  young 
officers. 


186  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"We  have  been  looking  for  you  all  over  the  place," 
explained  one  of  them.  "A  pigeon  of  yours  got  back 
to  Dunkirk.  You  drifted  a  lot,  I  presume,  and  —  er 
—  we  never  dreamed  of  finding  you  just  here,  don't 
you  know." 

"My  message  may  have  given  the  wrong  bear 
ings,"  Carnahan  admitted,  with  a  blush.  "I  wasn't 
quite  sure  of  my  position  after  the  weather  turned 
so  thick  and  squally.  Just  where  were  we  when  you 
found  us,  may  I  ask?" 

The  destroyer  officers  appeared  highly  amused 
at  this,  and  the  navigator  chuckled  as  he  explained: 

"Inside  the  net  barrage  that  was  laid  to  catch 
the  Huns  if  they  try  to  go  down  Channel.  We  were 
keeping  clear  of  it,  do  you  see,  when  we  heard  an 
explosion  - 

"That  was  U-62.  We  noticed  it  ourselves,"  said 
Ensign  Alfred  Chew. 

"Right-o.  The  blighter  must  have  touched  off 
a  mine  while  he  was  messing  about  in  the  nets. 
That  is  the  trick  of  it.  And  you  chaps  actually 
coaxed  him  into  blowing  himself  to  blazes!  My  word! 
How  extraordinarily  clever!" 

"  Carnahan  did  it,"  modestly  affirmed  Ensign  Chew. 

"Snappy  work  with  the  machine  gun  really  did 
the  business  for  Fritz,"  loyally  exclaimed  "Bob." 
"It  got  his  goat,  and  then  we  had  him  where  we 
wanted  him." 

Before  the  hurrying  destroyer  reached  Dunkirk 
the  surgeon  reported  that  the  captured  commander 
of  U-62  would  probably  recover  from  his  injuries. 


THE  NET  RESULT  187 

He  had  already  revived  and  was  able  to  talk  a  little. 
It  was  to  be  inferred  that  he  held  an  extremely  low 
opinion  of  a  nation  which  would  employ  such  das 
tardly  contrivances  against  the  gallant  submarines 
of  the  Imperial  German  Navy.  As  for  the  Yankee 
aviators  he  regretted  that  he  had  not  sunk  them  at 
sight  instead  of  behaving  too  gently  and  honorably. 

Lieutenant  "Chuck"  Bevans,  weary  with  the 
day's  work,  was  at  the  mooring  berth  when  the 
destroyer  slipped  into  the  basin.  Darkness  had  fallen 
over  the  shattered,  melancholy  seaport  of  Dunkirk. 
The  good  news  had  been  sent  him  by  wireless,  and  as 
his  haggard  but  exultant  brace  of  youngsters  limped 
out  the  gangway  he  shook  hands  with  them  and 
exclaimed : 

"Well  done!  These  Britishers  credit  you  with  the 
destruction  of  a  big,  seagoing  sub.  It  means  a  dec 
oration  or  two.  Wow,  but  I  am  glad  to  get  you  back 
alive  and  kicking.  I  cursed  myself  all  day  for  letting 
you  go." 

"There  was  no  need  of  worrying  about  us," 
grandly  replied  Ensign  Carnahan.  "We  had  a  per 
fectly  bully  time,  did  n't  we,  Al?" 

"You  said  it  for  me,  Bob.  This  is  the  end  of  a  per 
fect  day." 

They  trudged  in  the  direction  of  their  humble 
quarters  among  the  stone  quays  and  passed  the 
long,  low  mound  with  the  roof  of  sand-bags  and 
boiler  plate.  In  all  likelihood  they  would  be  scram 
bling  into  the  dugout  a  few  hours  later,  for  the  sky 
had  cleared  and  the  stars  were  out. 


188 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


"This  is  home,  sweet  home,"  murmured  Ensign 
Carnahan,  "and  it's  plenty  good  enough  for  me.  I 
surely  do  pity  the  poor  guys  in  the  Service  who 
can't  get  overseas  duty." 

Ensign  Alfred  Chew  breathed  a  long  sigh  of  con 
tentment.  With  a  glance  at  the  shining  stars  over 
head,  he  responded: 

"Well,  if  the  darned  old  Boche  comes  over  to 
night,  I  think  we  have  given  him  a  pretty  fair  excuse 
for  bombing  us." 


THE  LAST  SHOT 

IT  was  drill  all  day  for  the  battleship  fleet  and  tar 
get  practice  at  night,  with  hordes  of  recruits  pouring 
in  from  the  naval  training  stations.  They  had  very 
many  things  to  learn  before  they  could  be  rated 
as  real  seamen.  The  petty  officers  grumbled  while 
they  sweated,  but  it  was  not  because  their  fighting 
battle-wagons  had  been  turned  into  kindergartens 
for  infant  bluejackets.  Hard  work  could  never  dismay 
them  so  long  as  they  were  helping  to  get  on  with  the 
war.  Their  grievance  amounted  to  an  affliction.  The 
destroyers  were  racing  across  to  mix  it  up  with  the 
enemy,  one  flotilla  after  another  steaming  out  of 
Hampton  Roads  to  vanish  on  the  long  trail  to  the 
eastward.  Even  a  flock  of  yachts  had  been  sent  to 
the  coast  of  France  —  guns  hastily  mounted,  lux 
urious  fittings  plucked  out  by  the  roots,  crews  of 
green  Reserves  flung  aboard  at  the  navy-yard. 

And  here  were  the  big  ships,  the  strength  of  the 
Navy,  ships  that  were  ready  and  eager  to  meet  any 
foe  on  blue  water,  gun  for  gun  —  fated  to  cruise  up 
and  down  the  Atlantic  coast  like  so  many  excursion 
steamers  or  to  ride  at  their  mooring  buoys  three 
thousand  miles  from  the  war.  That  the  British  Grand 
Fleet  had  been  knocking  about  the  North  Sea  for 
three  years  at  this  same  dreary  business,  or  waiting 
and  hoping  at  a  base  in  the  misty  Orkneys,  was 
small  consolation. 


190  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Of  the  grim  super-dreadnoughts  which  flew  the 
Stars  and  Stripes,  the  flagship  was  the  latest  and 
the  most  powerful,  with  an  "E"  painted  on  her 
turrets  to  show  that  her  fourteen-inch  guns  had 
won  the  fleet  record  for  smashing  a  speck  of  a  tar 
get  at  a  ten-mile  range.  The  activities  within  her  steel 
walls  where  dwelt  twelve  hundred  men  were  manifold 
and  wonderfully  organized,  but  their  supreme  pur 
pose  was  to  punish  the  enemy  in  battle  and  this  could 
be  done  only  by  straight  shooting  and  hard  hitting. 
The  gun  crews  of  the  flagship,  from  the  pointers  to 
the  plugmen  and  shell-handlers,  could  not  be  blamed 
for  regarding  their  work  as  more  important  than 
anything  else  on  board. 

Owen  Kirby,  chief  gunner's  mate,  was  a  turret 
captain  of  this  crack  ship.  The  perfection  of  team 
play  required  of  his  men  surpassed  that  of  a  cham 
pionship  Varsity  eleven.  It  was  the  human  equation 
exquisitely  efficient  and  coordinated  which,  after 
all,  enabled  the  mighty  mechanism  of  steel  to  be 
operated  with  such  speed  and  accuracy.  In  number 
one  turret  they  jumped  when  Owen  Kirby  spoke, 
because  he  was  the  man  for  the  job.  When  these 
lithe  lads  stripped  to  the  waist  and  the  powder  bags 
were  rammed  home,  it  was  the  chief  gunner's  mate 
to  whom  they  looked  as  the  leader  rather  than  the 
youthful  officer  who  commanded  them. 

Clean  and  trim  and  hard,  Kirby  looked  the  part. 
The  American  Navy  had  stamped  him  as  its  own 
and  he  would  have  made  a  splendid  figure  for  a 
recruiting  poster.  He  conveyed  an  impression  of  dis- 


THE  LAST  SHOT  191 

ciplined  young  manhood,  alert,  courageous,  and  de 
pendable.  Now  a  man  in  a  battleship  turret  lives 
and  toils  in  such  intimate  contact  with  his  comrades 
that  he  cannot  deceive  them  by  ever  so  little  nor 
can  he  hide  his  faults  no  matter  how  trifling.  It  was 
obvious  that  Kirby  had  an  excellent  opinion  of  him 
self;  nothing  annoying  in  the  way  of  brag  or  bluster, 
but  a  sort  of  gentlemanly  self-satisfaction.  When 
his  shipmates  mentioned  it  among  themselves,  the 
good-natured  verdict  was  that  the  spruce  turret 
captain  did  not  hate  himself.  When  ashore  he  visited 
friends  whose  social  position  was  better  than  that 
to  which  an  enlisted  man  of  the  Regular  Navy  was 
perhaps  accustomed. 

He  felt  quite  certain  that  no  one  had  guessed  it, 
but  all  this  eagerness  to  get  across  to  the  war  zone 
in  anything  that  floated  had  left  him  cold.  He  was 
contented  where  he  was  and  preferred  to  stay  there. 
He  had  always  been  in  battleships,  and  the  idea 
of  banging  about  in  a  tin  pot  of  a  destroyer  failed 
to  thrill  him.  The  comfortable  living  quarters,  the 
pleasant  pilgrimages  in  port,  the  distinction  he  en 
joyed  as  turret  captain  of  a  flagship  which  held  the 
fleet  gunnery  record,  were  very  much  to  his  taste. 

There  was  another  reason  for  this  singular  indif 
ference  to  active  service  and  her  name  was  Louise 
McCrea.  Her  home  was  in  Norfolk,  her  father  a 
substantial  ship-chandler,  and  her  beauty  so  unde 
niable  that  when  Owen  Kirby  walked  with  her  he 
held  his  chin  up  as  if  daring  all  the  world  to  take 
her  from  him.  So  far  as  it  was  in  him  he  loved  her 


192  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

unselfishly,  but  in  a  hidden  corner  of  his  mind  was 
the  shrewd  hope  of  quitting  the  Navy  after  the  war 
and  diverting  his  energies  to  the  prosperous  firm  of 
John  McCrea  &  Co.  which  was  lagging  for  lack  of 
young  blood.  The  turret  captain  had  no  desire  to 
be  marooned  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  and 
thereby  give  his  rivals  a  clear  field.  Absence  might 
make  the  heart  grow  fonder,  but  he  would  rather 
not  risk  it  in  the  case  of  Louise.  He  seemed  to  be 
making  headway  in  her  favor,  but  he  had  not  yet 
dared  to  put  it  to  the  test  by  asking  her  to  marry  him. 

It  was  a  summer  afternoon,  tempered  by  a  breeze 
from  seaward,  when  he  went  ashore  in  a  launch  with 
the  mail  orderly,  who  cast  an  appraising  eye  at  the 
immaculate  white  uniform  which  had  been  fitted  to 
a  hair  by  a  Norfolk  tailor,  and  smiled  sagaciously 
as  he  remarked: 

"You  always  do  give  'em  a  treat  when  you  hit 
the  beach.  Too  bad  the  ladies  are  n't  allowed  to  visit 
aboard  in  war-time.  They  miss  something,  take  it 
from  me." 

Kirby  colored  and  his  reply  was  curt.  Persiflage 
from  a  lowly  marine  ruffled  his  dignity.  He  was  ab 
sorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  —  the  ardent  anticipation 
of  seeing  Louise  McCrea,  and  a  new  ambition  which 
had  lately  interested  him  —  to  enroll  in  the  three 
months'  training  course  at  Annapolis  and  win  a  com 
mission  as  ensign  for  the  duration  of  the  war.  Here 
was  another  argument  against  service  in  European 
waters.  Why  worry?  He  was  too  valuable  a  man  to 
be  taken  out  of  his  turret  and  shifted  elsewhere. 


THE  LAST  SHOT  193 

The  captain  of  the  battleship  was  too  proud  of  the 
gunnery  record  to  break  up  the  combination. 

John  McCrea  had  been  to  sea  in  his  youth,  and 
he  had  built  a  house  close  to  the  water,  with  a  wharf 
and  a  small  ketch-rigged  yacht  to  sail  for  a  pastime. 
He  was  puttering  about  on  deck  when  Owen  Kirby 
crossed  the  lawn,  and  the  foremast  hand  was  hoisting 
sail. 

"Come  along,  young  man,"  shouted  the  father  of 
Louise.  "We'll  have  supper  down  the  bay  and  come 
back  with  the  tide.  The  daughter  will  be  down  in  a 
jiffy,  so  she  says,  but  you  know  what  that  means." 

Precious  moments  fled  while  the  turret  captain 
coiled  the  halliards  and  otherwise  made  himself  use 
ful.  Then  the  adorable  Louise  condescended  to  go 
aboard  in  a  leisurely  manner  as  though  it  were  quite 
proper  that  the  party  should  wait  on  her  pleasure. 
Owen  Kirby  of  the  ready  wit  and  engaging  demeanor 
was  smitten  with  dumbness,  sure  symptom  that  he 
was  honestly  in  love,  while  Louise  McCrea  twinkled 
mischief  and  read  his  malady.  The  head-sails  climbed 
the  stays  and  the  yacht  footed  it  nimbly  out  to  deep 
water  for  a  long  reach  with  the  bubbles  tinkling  in  her 
wake.  Burly  John  McCrea,  a  pipe  between  his  teeth, 
stood  at  the  wheel  and  bullied  the  foremast  hand, 
with  never  a  care  in  the  world,  while  his  daughter 
sat  in  the  cockpit  and  talked  to  the  stalwart  turret 
captain  who  leaned  against  the  cabin  door.  Her  mood 
was  unusually  pensive,  even  a  little  wistful,  but  she 
did  not  reveal  the  reason  until  the  gray  battle 
ships  of  the  fleet  lifted  ahead  like  rows  of  citadels. 


194  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"So  many  men  are  drafted  from  them  for  foreign 
service,  aren't  they,"  said  she.  "I  see  their  boats 
going  and  coming  all  day.  And  their  wives  wait  at 
the  navy-yard  to  say  good-bye." 

"Yes,  they  are  all  crazy  to  take  a  hand  in  the  big 
game,"  agreed  Owen,  with  more  heartiness  than  he 
felt.  "I  heard  our  executive  officer  say  he'd  give  a 
leg  to  get  a  destroyer." 

"I  know.  I  have  had  to  say  farewell  to  several 
men  I  knew,  and  it  gives  one  a  forlorn,  lonely  feeling. 
And  I  suppose  you  are  moving  heaven  and  earth  to 
be  transferred  over  there.  A  rosy  cherub  of  an  ensign 
dashed  in  yesterday  and  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
turn  somersaults  on  the  grass.  He  had  been  ordered 
to  a  destroyer.  He  kept  repeating  —  '  Could  you  beat 
it,  Miss  McCrea.  Those  are  the  boys  that  bat  'em 
high,  wide,  and  lively.'  ' 

"Well,  it  is  tough  luck  to  be  stranded  aboard  a 
battleship,"  earnestly  responded  the  turret  captain; 
"but  the  fleet  may  come  in  handy  before  the  war  is 
over  and  some  of  us  have  to  stay  and  keep  it  tuned 
up.  It  breaks  a  man's  heart  to  be  missing  the  fun,  but 
it's  duty  first." 

"I  presume  they  can't  spare  you,  which  is  my 
good  fortune,"  more  cheerfully  observed  Louise.  "It 
is  selfish  of  me,  but  I  am  glad  to  have  one  friend  left 
at  home." 

"Then  my  cloud  has  a  silver  lining,"  exclaimed 
Kirby,  whose  boldness  was  returning.  "And  you 
think  no  less  of  a  man  because  he  is  not  playing 
hide-and-seek  with  submarines  off  the  Irish  coast?" 


THE  LAST  SHOT  195 

"Why  should  I?"  cried  Louise,  frank  admiration 
in  her  eyes.  "More  honor  to  the  man  who  serves 
without  hope  of  glory." 

"I'd  rather  hear  you  say  that  than  to  fly  an 
admiral's  pennant,"  he  fervently  replied,  and  his 
avowal  was  as  plain  as  words. 

She  became  silent,  while  she  gazed  with  a  sort  of 
musing  tenderness  at  the  towering  flagship  of  the 
fleet,  as  though  her  heart  had  found  its  home.  The 
breeze  died  with  the  sun  and  the  yacht  drifted  like  a 
phantom  on  the  breast  of  the  flooding  tide.  Outward 
bound,  swiftly  stealing  through  the  hazy  twilight, 
came  the  long,  lean  shape  of  a  destroyer.  Her  decks 
were  stripped  and  the  guns  were  cleared.  The  knife- 
like  prow  flung  the  water  cleanly  aside  as  the  drum 
ming  pulsation  of  the  engines  drove  her  with  the 
power  of  sixteen  thousand  horses.  The  men  of  the 
deck  watch  moved  about  in  dungarees  and  oilskins. 
From  the  bridge  a  fresh-faced  youngster  waved  his 
cap  and  Louise  McCrea  flourished  her  handkerchief 
as  she  cried: 

"Good-bye  and  fare  you  well." 

"There  is  my  rosy  little  ensign,"  she  explained 
to  Owen  Kirby,  "and  he  is  the  proudest,  luckiest 
man  in  the  world." 

At  precisely  ordered  intervals  the  other  destroyers 
of  the  division  fled  past,  and  their  blinkers  winked 
the  parting  signals  to  the  flagship  which  flashed 
back  the  admiral's  good  wishes.  Queenstown  was 
their  destination.  Louise  McCrea  stood  looking  after 
them  until  the  low  hulls  moved  as  shadows  that 


196  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

blended  into  the  darkening  sky.  Her  eyes  were  suf 
fused  with  feeling  and  there  was  a  catch  in  her  voice 
as  she  said  to  the  turret  captain: 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you!  Was  n't  it  wonderful 
to  see  them!  But  they  have  left  you  behind." 

"Would  you  be  sorry  to  see  me  go?"  he  asked  her. 

"Yes,  of  course,  Owen  —  but  I  was  not  thinking 
of  myself.  It  would  mean  such  a  tremendous  lot  to 
you  to  be  in  one  of  those  destroyers." 

Her  sympathy  stirred  him  profoundly,  although 
he  had  won  it  by  false  pretenses.  He  felt  certain 
that  she  cared  for  him.  In  his  heart  he  was  thankful 
that  he  was  not  in  one  of  those  uneasy,  twisting 
destroyers,  facing  exile  and  discomfort.  The  sight 
of  them  had  made  his  pulse  beat  no  faster.  Things 
were  going  extraordinarily  well  with  him.  At  this 
rate  he  would  dare  to  ask  Louise  to  marry  him  before 
the  summer  was  much  older. 

When  he  returned  to  his  ship  that  night  his  spirits 
were  blithe  and  he  hummed  a  song  as  he  went  to  his 
room.  His  mood  might  have  been  different  could  he 
have  overheard  a  conversation  between  the  gunnery 
officer  and  the  executive  after  dinner. 

"Another  armed  guard  draft  to  go  to  the  New 
York  yard,"  wearily  exclaimed  the  latter.  "And 
our  complement  is  thirty  men.  How  the  devil  do 
they  suppose  we  can  keep  a  ship  up,  with  the  or 
ganization  shot  to  pieces  every  few  days?" 

"Those  merchant  steamers  are  yelling  their  heads 
off  for  gun  crews  and  the  fleet  has  to  suffer,"  growled 
the  gunnery  officer,  who  was  also  overworked  and 


THE  LAST  SHOT  197 

unhappy.  "We  have  to  give  up  two  chief  petty 
officers  with  this  draft.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  Well, 
I  know  one  that  can  be  spared.  And  it's  good  rid 
dance." 

"A  gunner?  I  did  n't  have  the  nerve  to  suggest  it, 
I  was  afraid  you  might  bite  me." 

"Not  at  all.  They  can  take  Owen  Kirby,  captain 
of  number  one  turret." 

"Kirby?  Why,  that  is  the  prize  turret  of  the  ship!" 
cried  the  executive.  "I  thought  Kirby  was  the  apple 
of  your  eye." 

"He  was,  but  not  now,"  replied  the  gunnery 
officer. 

"What's  wrong  with  him?  There's  not  a  mark 
against  his  record." 

"Well,  it's  not  easy  to  put  your  finger  on  it,  but 
his  men  have  been  slowing  up  a  bit,  a  few  seconds 
on  a  loading  drill,  and  the  trouble  is  with  the  turret 
captain.  He  always  was  chesty,  but  I  did  n't  mind 
that.  You  know  what  the  spirit  of  the  ship  is  —  all 
hands  crazy  to  get  into  the  war.  By  Jove,  they'd 
swim  across  if  you  said  the  word.  Kirby  does  his 
duty,  but  he  is  n't  putting  his  back  into  it.  I  can  feel 
it.  A  hunch  of  mine,  perhaps,  but  I'd  rather  let  him 
go  and  break  in  one  of  the  gunner's  mates,  a  lad  all 
pep  and  punch  with  a  record  to  make." 

"Very  well.  It's  up  to  you,"  agreed  the  executive. 
"Send  him  along  with  the  armed  guard  draft  to 
morrow  morning.  A  change  of  air  may  do  him  good." 

Fresh,  fit,  and  jaunty,  the  turret  captain  was  smok 
ing  a  cigarette  after  breakfast  when  a  messenger 


198  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

summoned  him  aft.  Smartly  at  attention  he  con 
fronted  the  gunnery  officer,  who  spoke  with  crisp 
brevity. 

"Good  morning,  Kirby.  You  will  be  ready  to  leave 
the  ship  at  nine  o'clock  to  proceed  by  rail  to  New 
York.  Report  to  the  officer  commanding  the  armed 
guard  barracks  at  the  navy-yard." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  am  to  take  charge  of  the  draft,  deliver 
the  men,  and  then  return  to  the  ship,"  was  the  brisk 
reply. 

"Not  at  all,  Kirby.  Don't  shoot  until  you  are  on 
the  mark.  Report  for  armed  guard  duty.  Do  I  make 
myself  clear?" 

The  chief  gunner's  mate  stood  motionless,  a 
picture  of  blank  amazement.  Suppressing  the  anger 
which  made  the  color  surge  to  his  tanned  cheek, 
he  stammered  assent  while  the  officer  regarded  him 
with  a  quizzical  smile.  The  "hunch"  was  correct. 
Kirby's  emotion  betrayed  him.  He  had  believed 
himself  indispensable  and  he  had  no  yearning  for 
hard  service  overseas.  There  was  a  soft  spot  in  the 
man. 

"It  —  it  is  short  notice,  sir,"  faltered  Kirby. 
"My  papers  will  have  to  be  — " 

"They  will  be  forwarded  to  you  from  the  chief 
yeoman's  office,"  was  the  careless  reply.  "Short 
notice?  We  are  at  war.  Have  n't  you  got  that  through 
your  head  yet?" 

The  officer  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  deposed 
turret  captain  standing  stiffly  in  his  tracks.  Pres 
ently  he  awoke  with  a  start,  muttered  an  oath  or 


THE  LAST  SHOT  199 

two,  and  slowly  walked  forward.  Somehow  the  word 
had  passed  along  the  gun  deck  that  he  had  been 
ordered  to  command  a  navy  guard  aboard  a  mer 
chant  vessel.  His  friends  crowded  about  to  shake 
hands  and  pound  him  on  the  back.  Lucky  dog!  He 
was  going  up  against  the  real  stuff,  sink  or  swim,  a 
fight  or  a  frolic.  It  was  a  crime  to  snatch  him  out 
of  number  one  turret,  but  it  meant  good-night  for 
Fritz  if  he  bobbed  up  within  range.  The  noisy  con 
gratulations  carried  to  the  ears  of  the  executive 
officer  who  was  making  a  morning  tour  of  inspection. 
He  was  immensely  pleased,  but  he  also  observed 
that  Kirby's  demeanor  was  sullen  and  unresponsive. 

A  little  later  a  hundred  light-hearted  young  blue 
jackets  trooped  into  a  train  with  bags  and  hammock 
rolls  and  sang  themselves  hoarse  as  they  journeyed 
northward.  It  was  a  harmless  riot.  They  had  no  idea 
of  what  lay  before  them,  but  they  were  on  their  way. 
To  them  had  been  vouchsafed  the  great  adventure. 
There  was  little  sleep  that  night,  but  they  tumbled 
out  next  morning,  still  bright-eyed  and  vigorous, 
to  march  through  the  gateway  of  the  navy-yard  in 
Brooklyn  and  turn  toward  the  rows  of  wooden  bar 
racks  which  had  been  hastily  erected  for  the  armed 
guard.  The  day's  work  was  already  in  progress.  Hun 
dreds  of  other  youngsters  in  white  working  clothes 
were  grouped  in  classes  at  the  spotting-board,  the 
four-inch  rifles,  the  fire  control,  and  signaling  devices. 

Owen  Kirby,  having  safely  delivered  his  mettle 
some  charges,  was  directed  to  a  small  office  in  which 
confusion  seemed  to  reign.  This  was  a  mistaken 


200  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

impression,  however,  for  the  black-haired,  wiry  lieu 
tenant  at  the  desk  was  capable  of  handling  several 
visitors  at  once.  One  shipping  agent  was  volubly 
complaining  that  he  was  losing  hundreds  of  dollars 
a  day  while  his  tanker  lay  at  the  wharf  waiting  for 
guns.  Another  protested  at  the  expense  of  ripping 
out  bulkheads  to  make  living  quarters  for  a  navy 
crew.  Petty  officers  and  yeomen,  ordnance  officers 
and  naval  constructors,  came  and  went.  The  Bureau 
of  Navigation  demanded  to  know  by  long  distance 
'phone  how  many  details  could  be  assigned  to  ships 
at  once. 

"Kirby?  Chief  gunner's  mate?"  snapped  the 
lieutenant.  "Just  in  time.  The  Bonanza  had  her 
final  inspection  this  morning.  She  can  sail  to-day. 
A  filthy  little  hooker,  but  you  will  have  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  Here  is  a  list  of  your  men.  Have  them  ready 
to  go  aboard  right  after  dinner,  understand?  Ask 
the  warrant  officer  in  the  next  room  for  any  more 
information.  Remember,  now  —  good  men  in  poor 
ships  are  better  than  poor  men  in  good  ships.  Be  tact 
ful  with  the  merchant  skipper.  He's  the  boss.  But 
if  it  comes  to  a  scrap  with  a  U-boat,  I  expect  you  to 
take  charge." 

"I  will  do  my  best,  sir,"  smartly  answered  the 
chief  gunner's  mate,  but  the  tones  lacked  the  driving 
power  of  indomitable  conviction,  and  the  lieutenant 
glanced  up  sharply,  although  he  had  nothing  more  to 
say.  There  was  no  waste  motion  in  this  intensely 
active  organization,  and  almost  before  he  could 
realize  what  had  happened  to  him,  Owen  Kirby 


THE  LAST  SHOT  201 

was  crossing  the  harbor  in  a  patrol  boat  with  twelve 
men  and  their  sea-kits.  In  festive  spirits  they  scram 
bled  up  the  side  of  a  rusty,  deep-laden  cargo  steamer, 
of  no  great  tonnage,  which  had  a  slack  and  slovenly 
aspect.  Piles  of  ashes,  the  refuse  of  the  galley,  odds 
and  ends  of  litter  had  been  dumped  on  deck.  A  pig 
sty  could  have  been  no  more  unlovely.  To  the  fas 
tidious  Kirby,  with  whom  cleanliness  had  become  a 
religion,  this  ship  was  unspeakable.  The  skipper  had 
gone  ashore,  but  he  found  the  mate  and  growled: 

"I'm  in  command  of  the  armed  guard.  Where  are 
the  quarters,  and  when  do  you  expect  to  make  this 
floating  garbage-can  fit  and  decent  to  live  in?" 

The  mate  was  lank  and  middle-aged,  with  a  sour, 
harrassed  manner.  Truculently  he  retorted: 

"Your  rooms  are  for'ard,  and  it's  none  of  your 
cussed  business  how  this  ship  is  kept.  We  can't  dump 
rubbish  overside.  It's  against  the  law  in  port.  We'll 
clean  up  when  we  get  to  sea." 

"Owners  too  mean  to  hire  a  barge  for  the  job?" 
suggested  the  other.  "Step  lively,  boys,  and  we'll 
stow  our  dunnage." 

The  bluejackets,  undismayed  by  their  surround 
ings,  were  curiously  gazing  at  the  raised  gun-plat 
forms  which  had  been  built  on  deck,  fore  and  aft,  and 
the  long  rifles  whose  polished  breech-blocks  winked 
in  the  sun.  They  filed  into  what  had  been  a  store 
room,  which  was  now  divided  by  a  partition  with 
bunks  in  tiers  against  the  walls.  For  twelve  men  the 
living  space  was  cramped  and  dingy,  but  they  made 
no  complaints.  The  chief  gunner's  mate  discovered 


202  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

that  he  was  expected  to  double  up  with  a  frowsy 
Norwegian  second  mate  whose  tiny  box  of  a  room 
was  incredibly  disordered.  In  the  heat  of  midsum 
mer  the  ship  fairly  stank  of  greasy  cooking,  of  bilge- 
water,  of  refuse  on  deck.  The  lieutenant  at  the  navy- 
yard  had  aptly  described  the  Bonanza  as  a  filthy 
little  hooker. 

The  soul  of  Owen  Kirby  was  in  revolt.  To  have 
been  flung  into  this,  from  the  majestic,  immaculate 
flagship  of  the  fleet,  was  adding  insult  to  injury,  but 
he  could  not  forget  that  he  was  in  command  of  the 
armed  guard.  Methodically  he  mustered  his  men  and 
sent  them  to  their  stations  at  the  guns.  Then  he 
tested  the  telephone  controls  which  led  to  the  bridge 
where  he  "spotted"  imaginary  ranges  through  the 
transmitter  and  made  certain  that  the  sight-setters 
understood  the  messages  and  promptly  executed 
them.  Having  investigated  the  ammunition  supply, 
he  was  scraping  acquaintance  with  two  or  three  of 
the  ship's  crew  when  one  of  them  exclaimed  with 
a  laugh: 

"Here  comes  the  old  man,  green  umbrella  and  all. 
A  hot  spell  surely  does  boil  the  tallow  out  of  him.  To 
look  at  his  carcass  you'd  think  there  was  plenty  to 
eat  on  this  rotten  packet." 

Kirby  saw  a  rotund  man  in  rumpled  white  clothes 
trudge  heavily  up  the  gangway.  His  face  was  large 
and  pallid  and  he  mopped  the  water  from  it.  In  his 
youth  he  must  have  been  robust,  but  now  he  was 
merely  gross  and  long  past  the  prime  of  usefulness. 
As  he  halted  to  fan  himself  with  a  Panama  hat,  a 


THE  LAST  SHOT  203 

mop  of  tumbled  white  hair  was  disclosed,  and  his 
hand  trembled  with  fatigue.  His  manner  was  jovial, 
excessively  so,  as  he  rolled  out  a  hearty  greeting  at 
sight  of  the  chief  gunner's  mate. 

"Glad  to  have  you  aboard,  Mr.  Kirby.  A  little  dif 
ferent  from  a  battleship,  hey?  But  I  guess  we  won't 
have  to  worry,  with  your  lads  on  watch.  Sort  of  clut 
tered  up,  but  we'll  get  things  to  rights.  Mr.  Bidde- 
cott  took  care  of  you  all  right,  did  he?  He's  the  first 
officer." 

"As  well  as  he  could,"  resentfully  answered  Kirby. 
"This  isn't  much  like  the  Navy.  You  said  it  for 
me,  Captain  Jordan.  Your  first  trip  through  the  war 
zone?" 

"Yes.  And  I  was  n't  a  mite  anxious  to  do  it,"  was 
the  garrulous  confession.  "I  retired  from  the  sea 
some  years  ago  and  was  runnin'  a  tidy  little  store, 
but  you  know  how  it  is.  American  shipmasters  are  an 
awful  scarce  article,  and  it's  the  same  with  vessels. 
Everything  that  can  float  and  turn  a  screw  over  has 
been  yanked  into  service.  With  freights  so  infernal 
high,  owners  can  afford  to  lose  a  vessel  after  a  couple 
of  offshore  voyages.  Think  we  can  manage  to  stand 
off  one  o'  them  submarines  if  we  run  afoul  of  it? 
They've  been  dreadful  cruel  to  seamen." 

"We  expect  to  fight  to  save  our  own  skins,"  said 
the  commander  of  the  armed  guard.  I  "  hope  your 
crew  has  the  sand  to  stand  by  in  a  pinch." 

"Well,  I  dunno,"  rather  weakly  observed  Captain 
Samuel  Jordan,  his  beaded  brow  creasing  in  an  anx 
ious  frown.  "Some  of  them  are  the  scum  and  scrap- 


204  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

in's  of  the  water-front  like  most  merchant  crews 
nowadays.  Spanish  firemen,  square-heads,  and  dagoes 
in  the  fo'castle  —  I  don't  have  to  tell  you.  Join  me 
on  the  bridge  if  you  like,  Mr.  Kirby.  It's  time  to  get 
the  ship  under  way." 

Assisted  by  a  tug,  the  Bonanza  swung  out  into  the 
stream  and  slowly  kicked  her  way  through  the  harbor 
traffic.  Neglected  and  ignoble  as  was  her  aspect, 
there  was  a  redeeming  quality.  It  was  revealed  in  the 
starry  ensign  which  whipped  above  her  tanrail,  in  the 
audacious  lads  of  the  Navy  who  were  still  grouped 
about  their  guns,  even  in  the  humble  drudges  of  her 
crew  who  moved  from  one  routine  task  to  another. 
The  Bonanza,  outward  bound  across  the  Western 
Ocean,  was  defying  the  pirates  of  Imperial  Germany. 
In  her  dumb  way  she  accepted  the  lawless  challenge 
and  championed  the  freedom  of  the  seas.  During 
these  early  months  of  the  war  merchant  steamers  out 
of  American  ports  were  not  assembled  in  convoys. 
The  Bonanza  fared  forth  alone  to  accept  the  hazards 
and  the  odds. 

Outside  Sandy  Hook  a  boisterous  wind  had  piled 
up  a  swollen  sea  which  broke  green  over  the  steamer's 
bows  as  she  lunged  into  it.  Hastily  loaded  and  poorly 
trimmed,  she  labored  until  Kirby  wondered  what 
would  happen  in  a  gale.  Captain  Jordan  was  moved 
to  suggest,  with  his  unctuous  chuckle: 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  to  have  some  target  prac 
tice  when  the  weather  moderates,  but  I  do  hope  you 
won't  shoot  off  them  guns  any  more  than 's  necessary. 
It's  my  opinion  that  the  concussions  'ud  shake  the 


THE  LAST  SHOT  205 

rivets  out  of  this  condemned  old  vessel  and  she  'd  open 
up  like  a  basket  and  drop  right  out  from  under  us." 

It  was  a  plausible  conjecture,  and  Kirby  promised 
to  make  the  target-firing  as  gentle  as  possible.  The 
situation  might  have  appealed  to  his  sense  of  humor, 
but  he  still  nursed  his  grievances  and  also  felt  un 
happy  symptoms  of  seasickness.  The  smells  and  the 
motion  were  novel  to  him.  In  this  low-spirited  mood 
he  was  convinced  that  he  had  been  deliberately  sen 
tenced  to  the  Bonanza,  not  through  any  fault  of  his 
own,  but  because  some  hidden  enmity  had  conspired 
against  him.  In  short,  he  was  the  victim  of  a  raw  deal. 
He  was  no  happier  after  trying  to  eat  the  food  served 
on  board.  It  was  scanty  and  wretched.  Even  his 
youngsters,  whom  nothing  could  daunt,  had  asked 
him  to  complain  to  the  captain.  This  made  conditions 
no  better.  The  corpulent  skipper  blandly  explained 
that  the  owners  stocked  the  ship  and  he  could  n't 
be  expected  to  run  "table-dote"  excursions  for  pam 
pered  gun  crews  from  the  Navy,  who  were  fed  too 
high,  as  everybody  knew. 

Thereupon  the  chief  gunner's  mate,  in  an  ugly 
temper  and  glad  of  an  excuse  for  a  quarrel,  sent  his 
men  into  the  storeroom  with  orders  to  break  out 
cases  of  canned  goods  for  their  own  mess.  The  Bo 
nanza  was  plodding  along  at  eight  and  nine  knots, 
with  an  occasional  breakdown  in  the  engine-room, 
and  there  were  indications  of  a  famine  before  the  ship 
had  been  at  sea  a  week.  The  dozen  boyish  bluejackets 
lost  their  exuberance  and  pulled  their  belts  tighter. 
They  could  have  told  you  something  about  the  hor- 


206  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

rors  of  war.  But  the  rusty  Bonanza  was  wallowing 
nearer  the  danger  zone  day  by  day,  and  one  could 
forget  he  was  hungry  in  the  blissful  hope  of  engaging 
a  hostile  submarine. 

The  chief  gunner's  mate  had  recovered  his  sea-legs 
and  suffered  chiefly  from  a  gnawing  appetite  and  a 
plague  of  rats  which  scampered  across  his  bunk  at 
night.  His  relations  with  the  jovial  skipper  were  far 
from  cordial.  The  old  man  was  losing  flesh  and  his 
laugh  was  infrequent.  At  times  he  was  talkative  and 
confiding,  and  then  came  spells  of  absent-minded 
silence  or  gusts  of  ill-humor.  He  seemed  flabby,  inert, 
in  mind  and  body.  It  was  curious  to  note  that  the 
lank,  sun-dried  mate  whose  personality  had  appeared 
so  insignificant  was  becoming  the  dominant  figure  of 
the  two  as  the  ship  approached  the  perilous  waters. 
Dyspepsia  tormented  Mr.  Biddecott,  and  he  had  led 
a  drab  career  with  small  hope  of  advancement,  but  in 
his  soul  burned  the  spark  of  manliness,  the  stubborn 
courage  of  a  true  American  seaman. 

Kirby  appraised  him,  and  they  learned  to  know 
each  other  as  they  stood  the  watches  together.  The 
mate  had  not  sailed  with  Captain  Samuel  Jordan  be 
fore,  but  he  shrewdly  took  stock  of  him. 

"A  good  man  once,  Mr.  Kirby,"  he  would  say,  in 
his  melancholy  accents,  "but  too  old  for  this  job.  A 
young  man's  game.  I'm  too  old,  but  I'm  tougher 
than  some.  The  skipper  has  cracked.  He  stands  up 
here  on  the  bridge  with  his  belly  against  the  rail  and 
bites  his  nails  while  the  sweat  pours  off  him.  His 
nerves  are  sick." 


THE  LAST  SHOT  207 

"Aye,  Mr.  Biddecott.  He  should  have  been  left  in 
his  little  grocery  store,  and  I  doubt  if  he'll  bring  the 
ship  out  again.  In  case  of  trouble  I  shall  look  to  you. 
This  is  between  us,  of  course.  Can  you  keep  the  crew 
in  hand?" 

"By  God,  I'll  hold  them  down  or  beat  their  brains 
out,"  quietly  responded  the  mate.  "Let  me  know 
how  many  men  you  need  to  pass  up  extra  shells  from 
the  magazine  and  they'll  be  there." 

It  would  be  unfair  to  infer  that  the  chief  gunner's 
mate  was  a  slacker  or  a  coward.  He  was  superbly 
skilled  at  his  own  trade  and  the  compulsion  of  duty 
was  binding.  Although  he  loathed  his  billet  and  his 
heart  was  not  in  it,  nevertheless  he  was  vigilant, 
efficient,  and  untiring.  His  gun  crews  were  drilled  un 
til  they  were  ready  to  drop  in  their  tracks,  but,  for 
all  their  buoyant  zest,  they  were  conscious  of  a  lack, 
a  missing  factor  of  the  equation.  What  they  failed  to 
find  in  Kirby  was  the  inspiration  of  leadership,  that 
flaming  resolution  which  kindles  other  men  so  that 
they  would  sooner  die  and  win  than  live  and  lose. 
They  knew  the  several  parts  they  had  to  play,  he  had 
made  them  letter-perfect,  but  it  was  more  like  train 
ing  for  target  practice  than  making  ready  to  fight  a 
desperate  battle  for  survival. 

The  Bonanza  passed  in  safety  until  she  was  within 
four  hundred  miles  of  the  coast  of  France.  Her  wire 
less  was  intercepting  distress  calls  from  other  ships 
that  were  shelled  or  torpedoed  all  around  her.  Wreck 
age  drifted  by,  and  empty  boats,  and  the  bodies 
of  drowned  seamen  whose  life-belts  buoyed  them 


208  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

grotesquely.  Captain  Samuel  Jordan  stared  at  these 
omens  of  disaster  and  had  a  mattress  fetched  on 
deck.  He  disliked  the  notion  of  being  blown  up  in  his 
bunk.  Eating  had  ceased  to  interest  him.  He  re 
mained  continually  on  the  bridge  and  subsisted  on 
bottled  beer  and  ship's-biscuit.  His  crew,  reading 
his  manifest  uneasiness,  saw  phantom  periscopes 
and  were  ripe  for  panic.  One  fireman  refused  to  go 
below  with  his  watch,  and  it  was  Mr.  Biddecott 
who  knocked  him  down  and  threw  him  into  the 
hatchway. 

The  submarine  attack  occurred  soon  after  sunrise. 
A  shell  sang  overhead  and  a  white  cascade  spouted 
on  the  tranquil  sea.  Another  followed  and  the  main- 
topmast  fell  on  deck,  carrying  away  the  radio  wires. 
It  was  a  singularly  lucky  shot.  The  Bonanza  could 
send  out  no  S.O.S.  calls  to  summon  cruiser  or  de 
stroyer  to  the  rescue.  It  was  her  fate  to  fight  it  out 
alone.  The  alarm  gong  called  all  hands  to  quarters. 
Set  like  sprinters  on  the  mark,  the  gun  crews  waited 
for  the  word  from  the  bridge  where  Kirby  stood 
with  the  binoculars  at  his  eyes,  the  telephone  head 
piece  clamped  on  like  a  helmet. 

The  circumstances  were  uncanny  because  although 
the  steamer  was  under  shell-fire  no  submarine  was 
visible.  The  sea  rolled  empty  and  unbroken  to  the 
horizon's  rim.  A  third  shell  wailed  in  its  swift  passage 
and  the  foam  spouted  a  little  way  ahead  of  the  ship 
which  swung  from  her  course  on  the  next  turn  of  the 
zigzag.  Owen  Kirby  was  gazing  into  the  dazzling 
path  of  the  sun  and  his  keen  vision  at  length  dis- 


THE  LAST  SHOT 


cerned  a  black  speck  which  swam  like  a  mote  in  this 
molten  radiance.  The  U-boat  commander  had  art 
fully  chosen  his  position.  The  light  favored  him 
while  it  sorely  handicapped  the  navy  gunners  who 
were  compelled  to  shoot  into  the  sun. 

The  enemy  was  at  least  eight  thousand  yards  dis 
tant  —  four  sea  miles  —  and  Kirby  called  out  the 
range.  Forward  and  aft  his  gunners  trained  their 
rifles  for  elevation  and  deflection  and  the  old  Bonanza 
was  jarred  to  her  keel  as  the  first  shots  were  fired, 
a  few  seconds  apart.  Mr.  Biddecott  ran  aft  and 
hoisted  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  the  bluejackets 
cheered  as  the  ragged,  grimy  bit  of  bunting  fluttered 
defiance.  It  was  load  and  fire  at  will,  as  rapidly  as 
the  guns  could  be  served,  and  the  shell-handlers 
were  passing  the  polished  projectiles  like  an  expert 
basket-ball  team. 

Kirby  swore  to  relieve  his  feelings  as  he  saw  that 
the  bright  sun  was  blinding  his  men  at  the  eye 
pieces  of  the  sights.  It  was  to  be  a  waiting  game, 
hammer  and  tongs,  until  the  sun  climbed  higher 
or  the  U-boat  crept  nearer.  The  German  gunners, 
crowded  upon  the  narrow  deck  of  their  unstable 
craft  were  shooting  wild  and  the  steamer  was  still 
unscathed  at  the  end  of  an  hour  of  furious  action. 
Then  it  was  apparent  that  the  commander  had 
determined  to  finish  the  business,  for  his  craft  moved 
in,  a  thousand  yards  closer,  and  shelled  with  more 
deliberation. 

The  gunners  of  the  Bonanza  were  firing  accurately, 
but  the  target  was  very  small,  and  it  was  immensely 


210  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

difficult  to  hit  at  three  and  a  half  miles.  Once  the 
enemy  moved  farther  out  as  if  made  more  cautious, 
but  he  soon  returned  and  resumed  the  methodical 
bombardment.  The  first  hit  scored  against  the  Bo 
nanza  was  a  shrapnel  shell  which  ripped  a  corner 
off  a  steel  deck-house  and  showered  fragments  far 
and  wide.  One  piece  removed  the  Panama  hat  of 
Captain  Samuel  Jordan  who  held  his  head  between 
his  hands  and  bellowed  the  news  that  he  had  been 
killed  dead  on  the  spot.  Another  tore  a  gash  in  the 
thigh  of  an  earnest  youth  at  the  forward  gun.  With 
a  flow  of  profanity  shocking  in  a  child  of  his  tender 
years,  he  bound  the  hurt  with  a  strip  from  his  under 
shirt  and  declared  that  no  triple-blanked  German 
son  of  a  skunk  could  make  him  quit  for  a  little  thing 
like  that. 

Two  hours  passed  and  the  doomed  Bonanza  was 
keeping  up  the  fight.  Kirby  shifted  his  men  about 
because  their  eyes  were  swollen  and  bloodshot  and 
the  incessant  shock  had  deafened  them.  He  ran  from 
his  station  to  shout  encouragement,  to  pat  them  on 
the  back,  to  tell  them  that  he  would  never  give  up 
the  ship.  The  selfishness  and  vanity  which  had  ob 
scured  his  manhood  were  burned  away  as  by  fire. 
His  clouded  vision  was  clearing  and  he  beheld  the 
one  thing  worth  while,  the  truth  unchanging  and 
eternal.  His  square  jaw  was  set  and  his  eyes,  shone 
like  stars.  No  longer  sullen,  he  smiled  when  he  spoke. 
He  was  profoundly  contented. 

The  cruel  submarine  could  not  be  driven  off.  The 
spray  flew  high  from  shells  that  seemed  to  burst  on 


THE  LAST  SHOT 


its  deck,  but  they  failed  to  cripple  it.  The  German 
gunners,  patiently  correcting  their  range,  found  the 
target  and  began  to  riddle  the  steamer  which  drifted 
at  laggard  speed  as  if  weary  of  the  fight.  A  shell 
pierced  the  plates  of  her  side  and  exploded  in  the 
engine-room.  Helpless,  she  rolled  like  a  log  in  the 
trough  of  the  sea.  Oilers,  stokers,  coal-passers  surged 
on  deck  and  rushed  to  lower  the  boats.  The  mate 
drove  them  back  with  his  pistol  and  Kirby  plunged 
into  the  ruck,  striking  out  right  and  left. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  ship  reeled  as  though 
she  had  rammed  a  rock  and  black  smoke  billowed 
from  a  forward  hatch.  With  buckets  and  hose  the 
bluejackets  fought  the  fire  before  it  crept  far  into  the 
cargo  and  then  returned  to  serve  their  guns  with  the 
same  headlong,  desperate  ardor.  The  after  gun  was 
presently  disabled  by  a  shell  which  struck  the  plat 
form.  Several  of  this  crew  were  wounded,  but  the 
others  shifted  forward  to  help  their  weary  com 
rades.  It  was  more  like  a  slaughter  when  a  shell 
glanced  from  a  bridge  stanchion  and  blew  the  man 
at  the  wheel  to  bloody  rags.  The  white  clothes  of 
Captain  Samuel  Jordan  were  spattered  with  crim 
son.  He  clung  to  the  twisted  railing  and  stared 
wildly  at  his  shattered  vessel,  which  was  slowly 
sinking  by  the  head.  His  lips  twitched  and  his 
voice  was  unsteady  as  he  cried  imploringly  to 
Kirby: 

"What's  the  sense  of  it?  It's  time  we  abandoned 
ship,  I  tell  you!  I'm  going  to  order  the  boats  away. 
This  is  murder.  You've  done  your  duty,  man.  Have 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


you  gone  crazy?  Hi,  there,  Mr.  Biddecott,  run  aft 
and  haul  down  that  flag!" 

Kirby  smiled  as  he  replied: 

"Nothing  doing,  Captain  Jordan.  I'll  give  the 
word  to  quit  the  ship.  Stay  where  you  are,  Mr. 
Biddecott,  for  I'll  shoot  the  man  that  tries  to  pull 
that  ensign  down." 

"You  needn't  pot  me,"  observed  the  mate,  with 
unusual  animation.  "It's  for  you  to  say  when  we're 
whipped.  I  hope  the  Navy  is  full  of  men  as  crazy  as 
you  are.  Going  to  blaze  away  with  that  for'ard  gun 
till  we  founder?" 

"There's  still  a  chance  of  assistance,"  returned 
Kirby,  "and  my  men  haven't  used  all  their  am 
munition.  Do  you  see  any  reason  for  quitting?" 

He  descended  the  ladder  to  find  his  wounded  men 
who  had  been  carried  to  a  shady  corner  of  the  deck. 
He  knelt  beside  a  boy  of  seventeen  years  whose 
chest  had  been  cruelly  torn  by  a  piece  of  shell.  One 
of  his  pals  had  bathed  and  bandaged  him,  and  the 
ship's  cook,  a  Georgia  darky,  was  holding  a  glass  of 
water  to  his  bloodless  lips.  The  labored  breath,  the 
pulse  which  had  almost  flickered  out,  told  Kirby 
that  it  was  the  end  of  the  voyage.  The  cook  gently 
adjusted  a  pillow  and  waved  a  folded  newspaper 
as  a  fan  while  he  murmured: 

"I'se  prayin'  fo'  you,  son,  jes'  the  same  as  yo' 
dear  mammy  would  do." 

Kirby  patted  the  bluejacket's  cheek,  which  was 
as  smooth  and  fair  as  a  girl's.  The  caress  was  like 
that  of  a  father.  For  a  moment  the  boy  awoke  from 


THE  LAST  SHOT  213 

his  drowsiness  and  recognized  the  commander  of  the 
armed  guard.  With  steady  gaze,  in  a  voice  astonish 
ingly  clear,  he  said: 

"Good  men  in  poor  ships,  sir  —  better  than  — 
better  than  poor  men  in  —  in  good  ships.  Sorry  I 
could  n't  finish  — " 

"This  man's  navy  is  proud  of  your  finish,  Joe," 
softly  replied  Kirby  as  he  turned  away.  The  forward 
gun  of  the  Bonanza  was  still  in  action,  but  as  he 
hastened  to  the  bridge  one  of  his  men  reported: 

"We  have  only  five  rounds  left,  sir.  And  the  sub 
marine  is  closing  in." 

"Then  it's  time  for  us  to  go,"  was  the  reluctant 
reply.  "Well,  we  stood  the  murderer  off  for  two  hours, 
but  the  luck  broke  wrong.  We  had  to  play  a  lone 
hand." 

He  was  about  to  tell  Mr.  Biddecott  to  get  the 
boats  away  when  with  a  shattering  roar  the  sea  and 
sky  turned  red  in  one  great,  blinding  fiash,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  the  stricken  Kirby.  In  the  fleeting  instant 
before  he  lost  consciousness  he  believed  that  the 
ship  had  blown  up.  He  lay  sprawled  where  the 
blast  of  the  exploding  shell  had  flung  him,  upon  the 
splintered  platform  or  false  deck  which  supported 
the  forward  gun.  At  length  a  glimmer  of  perception 
returned  to  him,  the  sense  of  intolerable  pain,  a 
bewildered  struggle  to  realize  what  had  befallen 
him.  One  leg  was  broken  below  the  knee.  It  hung 
over  the  edge  of  the  platform  in  an  oddly  twisted 
manner  and  he  regarded  it  curiously.  He  raised  a 
groping  hand  to  his  face  and  winced.  His  fingers 


214  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

were  wet  and  red.  His  vision  was  uncertain,  but  he 
thought  he  could  see  the  boats  pulling  away  from  the 
ship.  Presently  two  of  his  gunners  came  running  for 
ward.  They  were  amazed  to  find  him  alive.  Their 
voices  came  to  him  as  though  faint  and  far  away. 
They  wished  to  pick  him  up  and  try  to  lower  him 
into  a  boat. 

He  was  not  at  all  interested  in  their  desire  to  save 
him.  His  dazed  mind  held  one  conception  only  — 
it  could  respond  to  nothing  else  than  the  purpose 
which  inspired  him.  His  men  were  about  to  lift  him 
in  their  arms,  although  one  of  them  said  to  the 
other : 

"He'll  die  before  we  get  him  over  the  side.  That 
shell  smashed  him  to  bits.  Easy  now!" 

"Easy  she  goes,"  was  the  reply.  "A  damn  shame, 
too!  This  Owen  Kirby  was  surely  a  man.  It  would 
ha'  broke  his  heart  to  give  up  the  ship.  I'm  glad  he 
did  n't  have  to." 

The  chief  gunner's  mate  tried  to  speak  to  them. 
His  tongue  seemed  swollen,  his  teeth  locked,  and  the 
words  he  so  desperately  strove  to  utter  were  no  more 
than  a  groan.  He  was  determined  to  make  them 
understand,  and  after  another  effort  they  heard  him 
mutter : 

"Leave  me,  boys.  That  goes.  It's  an  order." 

The  two  bluejackets  stared  at  him,  then  at  each 
other.  They  were  hesitant,  perplexed,  but  the  bonds 
of  discipline  and  the  habit  of  obedience  were  strong. 
Kirby  was  the  commander  of  the  armed  guard.  He 
was  as  good  as  dead,  and  he  desired  to  go  down  with 


THE  LAST  SHOT  215 

this  ship.  This  was  how  it  appealed  to  them.  His 
word  was  law  and  his  decisions  supreme.  They  per 
ceived,  also,  that  his  was  the  right  to  make  this  splen 
did  choice.  He  repeated  the  order,  a  faltering  word 
or  two  and  they  solemnly  nodded  assent.  Gripping 
his  hand  in  farewell,  they  went  to  the  side  of  the 
ship  and  slid  down  the  falls  of  a  davit  into  the  wait 
ing  boat. 

Owen  Kirby  lay  sprawled  as  he  had  fallen.  He 
could  look  across  the  gun-platform  and  catch 
glimpses  of  the  summer  sea  as  the  shell-rent  Bonanza 
rolled  with  a  slow,  sodden  motion.  His  men  had 
said  he  was  dying,  but  they  might  be  wrong.  He 
would  wait  and  see.  All  he  asked  was  a  little  strength, 
and  a  respite  until  the  game  was  played  to  the  end. 
His  mind  was  less  befogged.  Motionless,  he  watched 
the  three  boats  draw  away  from  the  ship  and  then 
halt  to  wait  for  her  tragic  obliteration.  From  his 
elevated  resting-place  he  could  glance  aft.  It  gratified 
him  to  behold  the  ragged,  starry  ensign  still  flaming 
in  the  breeze.  The  symbol  conveyed  its  message  to 
him  with  a  new  and  intimate  significance. 

The  German  submarine  had  turned  to  sweep  in  a 
wide  circle  around  the  ship.  The  approach  was  wary, 
suspicious,  as  though  the  commander  wished  to 
assure  himself  that  all  hands  had  abandoned  the 
Bonanza.  Apparently  convinced  that  only  dead  men 
were  left  on  board,  he  steered  within  hailing  dis 
tance  of  the  boats  in  order  to  interrogate  the  captain. 

Owen  Kirby  saw  the  submarine  drift  a  little 
closer,  with  engines  stopped.  The  long,  wet  back  of 


216  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

her  was  exposed  and  two  officers  climbed  out  of  the 
open  hatch  of  the  conning  tower.  The  eye  of  the  chief 
gunner's  mate  measured  the  distance  as  accurately 
as  a  range  finder  could  have  done  it.  His  lips  moved 
in  devout  supplication  to  God.  Failure  meant  that 
the  U-boat  would  slay  him  with  the  ship,  and  failure 
was  almost  certain,  but  this  had  been  his  resolve,  to 
gamble  on  the  one  chance  in  a  million. 

He  did  not  know  whether  he  could  drag  himself 
across  the  ten  feet  of  planking  intervening  between 
him  and  the  forward  gun.  As  soon  as  he  should  move 
at  all,  the  submarine  would  observe  it  and  rake  the 
bow  of  the  ship  with  shrapnel.  Even  if  he  reached 
the  gun  and  it  proved  to  be  unloaded,  he  could 
never  open  the  breech  and  insert  a  shell,  but  there 
was  a  possibility  that  the  explosion  which  injured 
him  had  also  blown  the  men  from  their  stations. 
He  grasped  the  problem  with  a  sort  of  lucid  intuition 
because  the  incessant  training  of  years  had  become 
second  nature.  He  was  no  longer  Owen  Kirby  with  a 
life  of  his  own  to  live  and  private  aspirations  to  be 
attained,  but  a  chief  gunner's  mate  of  the  American 
Navy  who  read  his  duty  clear  and  inexorable. 

He  looked  again  at  the  submarine  and  then  mus 
tered  every  last  atom  of  will  power  and  vitality  for 
the  task  in  hand.  His  body  rolled  over  and  he  raised 
himself  upon  his  knees.  Lurching  forward,  he  lay 
prone,  but  his  powerful  arms  upheaved  him  again 
and  so  he  crept  very  slowly,  dragging  a  broken  leg 
and  leaving  a  crimson  smear  across  the  platform. 
Ten  feet  to  go,  and  the  submarine,  caught  unpre- 


THE  LAST  SHOT  217 

pared,  would  require  at  least  three  minutes  to  sub 
merge.  He  dared  not  turn  his  head  for  a  glimpse  of 
that  hateful  target.  His  eyes  were  pitifully  intent 
upon  his  goal. 

The  U-boat  was  already  aware  of  his  purpose. 
The  German  officers  had  discerned  this  half-naked, 
bloody  apparition  of  a  man  awake  from  the  dead. 
Commands  were  shouted,  confused  and  guttural, 
and  precious  moments  wasted  while  the  German 
gunners  scrambled  up  from  below  and  excitedly 
opened  fire.  They  hit  the  ship,  but  left  the  creeping 
man  and  the  forward  gun  unscathed.  The  blond 
commander,  so  cool  and  heroic  when  engaged  in  de 
stroying  merchant  vessels  or  speeding  torpedoes  at 
hospital  ships,  was  in  a  state  of  consternation.  He 
bawled  at  his  men  to  get  inside  the  boat  and  kicked 
them  as  they  jostled  madly  toward  the  open  hatch. 
They  impeded  each  other  and  he  pounded  them 
with  the  butt  of  his  pistol.  He  thrust  them  aside, 
leaving  two  or  three  on  deck,  and  fairly  tumbled 
down  the  ladder  in  his  frantic  haste  to  screw  down 
the  hatch  and  submerge.  The  poor  devils  outside 
could  drown  for  all  he  cared. 

The  chief  gunner's  mate  of  the  Bonanza  had  gained 
that  ten  feet  of  his  agonized  pilgrimage.  He  wiped 
the  blood  from  his  eyes  and  grasped  the  training 
gear  by  which  he  hauled  himself  erect,  slowly,  hand 
over  fist.  Supporting  himself  upon  one  leg,  leaning 
against  the  breech  of  the  gun,  he  waited  a  moment 
until  his  swimming  vision  became  focused  on  the 
submarine.  From  the  drifting  boats  filled  with  the 


218  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

castaways  of  the  ship  there  came  the  noise  of  cheer 
ing.  The  tears  rolled  down  Kirby's  disfigured  cheek, 
but  they  were  not  tears  of  sadness.  He  was  very 
happy. 

Automatically,  with  deft,  unerring  skill,  he  spun 
the  brass  wheel  which  deflected  the  long  rifle  to 
right  or  left.  The  heavy  mechanism  moved  so  easily 
that  a  child  could  have  controlled  it.  The  touch  of 
another  wheel  and  the  muzzle  dropped  until  it  was 
aiming  at  point-blank  range,  a  scant  four  hundred 
yards.  This  manipulation  required  no  more  than  a 
few  seconds.  Kirby  hobbled  to  one  side  and  glanced 
through  a  telescope  sight.  He  swayed  and  faltered, 
but  there  was  strength  in  him  for  a  glimpse  through 
the  other  sight.  The  cross-hairs  bore  true  on  the 
mark.  The  ship  rolled  a  little  and  he  delayed.  Then 
as  he  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  the  submarine  was 
where  he  wished  it  to  be,  he  pressed  the  firing-pin. 

Instead  of  the  futile  silence  which  he  had  feared, 
the  gun  spoke  with  its  sharp  and  vicious  detonation 
and  Kirby  reeled  back,  collapsing  on  deck.  He  had 
not  fainted.  Even  death  would  have  to  wait  until  he 
saw  where  that  last  shot  struck.  Black  smoke  and 
white  water  leaping  high  veiled  the  submarine  from 
his  sight.  Then  this  tumult  subsided  and  a  rounded 
prow  lifted  grotesquely  from  the  boiling  sea.  It 
seemed  almost  to  stand  on  end.  Great  bubbles  of 
air  broke  the  surface.  The  bodies  of  men  shot  up  as 
though  propelled  by  some  violent  pressure  and  van 
ished  as  suddenly  as  they  had  appeared.  Floating 
debris  moved  rapidly  in  the  whirlpools. 


IT  SEEMED  ALMOST  TO  STAND  ON  END 


THE  LAST  SHOT  219 

The  Bonanzas  boats  perceived  that  there  were  no 
survivors.  As  by  a  common  impulse  the  oars  splashed 
in  a  return  journey  to  the  ship.  First  to  gain  the  deck 
were  the  jubilant  bluejackets.  Their  pride  in  the 
chief  gunner's  mate  overcame  the  keen  regret  that 
they  had  not  been  with  him,  but  as  one  of  them  said 
while  they  raced  forward: 

"He  had  to  turn  the  trick  alone.  It  was  the  only 
way  to  out-guess  old  Fritz.  And  he  had  it  all  framed 
up,  boy,  when  he  told  us  to  beat  it.  Do  you  suppose 
he's  dead?" 

"Kirby?"  shouted  a  derisive  comrade.  "There's 
no  such  thing  as  killing  that  bird." 

When  they  found  him,  however,  it  seemed  as 
though  he  had,  in  truth,  fired  his  last  shot.  Limp, 
broken,  insensible,  he  was  sprawled  again  with  his 
head  on  his  arm.  They  were  caring  for  him  as  best 
they  could  when  Captain  Samuel  Jordan  came  lum 
bering  up  to  blubber,  in  accents  of  grief: 

"I  just  can't  help  cryin'  if  he's  passed  out.  He 
was  n't  always  polite,  and  he  did  treat  me  rough,  but, 
my  stars,  did  you  see  what  he  did  to  that  wicked 
U-boat?  We'll  shift  him  to  the  yawl  as  careful  as  we 
can,  even  if  there  ain't  a  kick  or  a  flutter  left  in  him." 

There  spoke  up  a  brisk  petty  officer,  boatswain's 
mate,  second  class,  who  had  succeeded  to  the  com 
mand  of  the  armed  guard. 

"We  stay  by  the  ship  this  time,  you  big  stiff, 
until  we  find  out  whether  she'll  float  or  founder. 
And  Mr.  Biddecott  is  the  skipper  by  unanimous  vote 
of  the  American  Navy." 


220  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

They  carried  Owen  Kirby  into  the  captain's  cabin 
which  had  not  been  demolished.  Presently  a  seaman 
who  had  been  sent  to  the  crow's-nest  as  a  lookout 
yelled  that  he  sighted  smoke  off  the  port  bow.  It 
trailed  as  a  black  banner,  and  soon  beneath  it  there 
lifted  four  funnels  and  a  long,  lean  hull  —  a  de 
stroyer  cruising  on  the  offshore  patrol. 

"Glory  be!  It's  a  Yank!"  roared  the  boatswain's 
mate  as  he  danced  on  the  bridge.  "And  if  the  bulk 
heads  hold  in  this  old  hooker  we  may  work  her  into 
port." 

With  the  slashing  stride  of  a  hound,  the  destroyer 
came  over  the  blue  sea  and  slowed  down  to  forge 
past  the  stern  of  the  derelict.  The  crew  had  been 
sent  to  quarters  and  the  depth  bombs  hung  over  the 
fan-tail,  ready  for  release,  but  the  officers  whose 
heads  appeared  above  the  splinter  mats  which  pro 
tected  the  bridge  were  gazing  at  the  spreading  blobs 
of  oil  and  the  bits  of  wreckage. 

"Looks  like  you  beat  us  to  it,"  the  commander 
sang  out  through  a  megaphone.  "Bully  for  you! 
Any  casualties?" 

"Yes.  Please  send  the  doctor  aboard,  and  some 
hands  to  help  us  patch  up  the  ship,"  answered  Mr. 
Biddecott. 

Thirty  men  swarmed  up  the  side,  sailors,  machin 
ists,  and  what-not.  They  consulted  the  chief  engineer 
of  the  Bonanza  and  briefly  interviewed  the  mate.  Then 
they  scattered  in  squads  and  the  crippled  steamer 
resounded  with  a  cheerful,  orderly  activity.  Six 
hours  later  she  was  moving  toward  the  coast  of 


THE  LAST  SHOT 


France  at  a  fitful  gait  of  four  knots  an  hour,  very 
much  down  by  the  head,  steering  in  a  drunken  fash 
ion,  and  apparently  on  the  point  of  plunging  to 
Davy  Jones,  but  under  way  nevertheless.  The  de 
stroyer  stood  by  until  a  tug  and  two  armed  yachts 
had  responded  to  the  radio  summons,  and  then  she 
fled  for  Queenstown  with  the  wounded  aboard. 

When  Owen  Kirby  came  to  himself  again  he  was 
in  an  airy  ward  of  a  hospital  on  the  hillside  which 
overlooked  the  harbor  and  the  Irish  Sea  beyond. 
His  head  was  swathed  in  bandages  and  his  leg  was 
in  splints,  and  he  dully  wondered  how  much  was 
left  of  him.  He  was  too  weak  to  care,  but  one  day 
slid  into  another  and  his  rugged,  youthful  vitality 
was  winning  the  victory.  At  length  he  was  able  to 
talk  without  exhaustion  and  the  doctor  answered 
some  of  his  questions. 

"The  Bonanza?  Oh,  she  is  in  dock,  the  same  as 
you  are.  Another  month  may  fit  her  for  sea.  Perhaps 
she  will  be  ordered  to  Queenstown  to  join  a  convoy 
homeward  bound." 

"I'd  like  to  see  her  again,  Doc.  What  have  they 
done  with  my  men?" 

"They  are  still  on  this  side  —  aboard  destroyers 
for  temporary  duty.  The  wounded  are  all  fit  as 
fiddles." 

"Tell  me,  is  my  face  scarred  up  much?" 

"Well,  it  is  healing  nicely,  but  I  am  afraid  your 
beauty  is  rather  spoiled.  Your  features  are  all  there. 
That  is  some  consolation." 

"Um-m,  I  used  to  like  to  throw  a  front,  but  what's 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


the  odds?  I'm  a  lot  more  anxious  about  that  leg  of 
mine.  Will  I  be  fit  for  active  service  again?" 

"It  will  be  strong,  Kirby,  but  you  may  have  to 
limp.  However,  they  won't  throw  you  out  of  the 
Navy  for  that." 

Another  week  of  healthy  convalescence  and  there 
came  to  the  ward  a  British  admiral  commanding  the 
Irish  coasts  and  waters.  The  gold  sleeve  stripes  ran 
clear  to  his  elbow.  Handsome,  decisive,  austere,  there 
was  something  warmly  human  in  his  manner  as  the 
chief  gunner's  mate  attempted  to  sit  up  and  salute. 

"Carry  on,  Kirby.  Don't  mind  me,"  smiled  the 
great  man.  "I  hope  they  have  looked  after  you.  I 
want  to  offer  my  respect  and  congratulations.  You 
are  an  honor  to  the  Allied  Service.  It  was  my  pleas 
ure  to  recommend  you,  in  a  report  to  the  Admiralty, 
for  the  Distinguished  Service  Order." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  amazed  invalid, 
"but  I  don't  see  what  you  did  it  for." 

"You  might  ask  your  Vice-Admiral  Sims.  He 
approves." 

"Well,  if  'Bill'  Sims  says  so,  I  can't  object,"  said 
the  commander  of  the  armed  guard. 

He  was  quite  well  and  able  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  hill  when  a  small,  uncouth  cargo  steamer  entered 
the  harbor,  wearing  a  decent  garb  of  fresh  gray 
paint.  It  was  like  meeting  an  old  friend  to  recognize 
the  Bonanza,  and  he  hovered  about  the  landing-pier 
until  Mr.  Biddecott  came  ashore  for  orders.  They 
drifted  over  to  the  bar  of  the  Queen's  Hotel  and 
drank  a  health  to  the  voyage  westward  bound. 


THE  LAST  SHOT  223 

"The  American  chief -of -staff  wants  to  send  me 
home  in  a  liner,  as  a  gilt-edged  passenger,"  said 
Kirby.  "Nothing  doing.  I  go  in  the  Bonanza,  with 
the  armed  guard,  and  my  old  boys  will  be  there." 

"I'll  be  proud  to  have  you  back,"  replied  the 
acting  skipper,  in  his  mournful  voice.  "Captain 
Samuel  Jordan  preferred  a  liner.  He  sailed  three 
weeks  ago." 

And  so  the  brave  Bonanza  dared  the  war  zone 
again,  but  destiny  was  kinder  and  she  went  clear 
to  pursue  her  way  through  the  untroubled  spaces 
of  the  Atlantic.  Owen  Kirby  found  leisure  for  re 
flection  while  the  salt  winds  were  restoring  his  old 
vigor.  He  did  not  flinch  when  in  the  little  mirror  of 
his  cabin  he  beheld  the  red  scars  that  slanted  from 
chin  to  brow  and  the  twist  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
He  could  not  expect  a  girl  to  be  fond  of  him,  al 
though  the  dear  image  of  Louise  McCrea  haunted  his 
dreams.  But  his  loVe  for  her  had  been  mingled  with 
a  base  alloy  of  self-interest.  He  was  a  different  man 
now,  but  he  deserved  the  punishment  of  losing  her. 

When  the  steamer  reached  New  York,  orders  were 
awaiting  him  to  proceed  to  Washington  and  report 
at  the  Bureau  of  Navigation.  On  a  bright  autumn 
morning  he  passed  along  Pennsylvania  Avenue  and 
lingered  in  front  of  the  White  House.  To  him  the 
stately  residence  was  the  headquarters  of  his  com- 
mander-in-chief .  Over  it  floated  and  rippled  a  starry 
flag,  fresh,  resplendent.  The  chief  gunner's  mate 
smiled,  for  he  was  thinking  of  a  ragged,  smoke- 
begrimed  wisp  of  an  ensign  which  had  whipped  from 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


the  stern  of  a  rusty,  shell-torn  little  cargo  boat  four 
hundred  miles  from  the  coast  of  France.  He  stood 
at  attention  and  bared  his  head,  and  then  walked  on 
to  the  Army  and  Navy  Building. 

It  seemed  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  had  ex 
pressed  the  wish  to  shake  hands  and  chat  with  him. 
Pleased,  but  unperturbed,  the  chief  gunner's  mate 
was  escorted  into  an  office  of  vast  dimensions  in 
which  several  admirals  appeared  to  be  waiting  their 
turns.  A  kindly  man  stepped  forward,  beckoned  this 
humble  visitor,  and  said: 

"Come  sit  down  in  the  corner  with  me,  Kirby. 
I  know  all  about  you.  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  welcome  was  as  simple,  as  unassuming,  as  if 
they  were  two  enlisted  men  talking  together.  Kirby's 
emotions  were  stirred.  He  scarcely  knew  what  to  say. 
In  his  estimation  the  honor  was  greater  than  to  have 
been  recommended  for  the  Distinguished  Service 
Order  of  England.  While  he  hesitated  the  Secretary 
suggested: 

"You  have  had  enough  sea  duty.  I  was  thinking 
of  promotion  to  warrant  rank  and  a  shore  billet  at 
the  Norfolk  Navy  Yard." 

Respectfully  but  firmly  Owen  Kirby  answered: 

"I  am  not  looking  for  anything  soft,  if  you  please, 
sir.  All  I  want  is  to  go  out  again  with  the  armed 
guard  of  the  Bonanza." 

"And  pot  another  sub?"  laughed  the  Secretary. 
"Well,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  object  to  such  a  request 
as  that.  Go  to  it,  and  God  bless  you,  Kirby,  my  boy." 

The  chief  gunner's  mate  wandered  out  of  the  hall- 


THE  LAST  SHOT 


way  and  drifted  irresolute.  He  thought  of  looking 
up  old  friends  in  the  building,  but  his  mood  was  no 
longer  elated.  He  felt  lonely,  and  tired.  Suddenly 
he  gazed  down  the  corridor  with  a  glad,  incredulous 
expression.  His  shoulders  straightened  and  his  chin 
went  up.  Louise  McCrea  was  hastening  toward  him. 
Then  he  remembered  his  disfigurement,  his  lameness, 
and  all  his  past  un  worthiness.  He  would  have  evaded 
her,  but  she  had  already  descried  him  and  her  face 
was  alight  with  joyousness. 

"Oh,  I  knew  I'd  find  you,  Owen!"  was  her  breath 
less  greeting.  "I  went  to  the  armed  guard  division 
just  now  and  they  told  me  you  were  in  the  Secretary's 
office." 

"You  were  trying  to  find  me!"  he  exclaimed  in 
wonderment. 

"Why,  of  course.  Dad  got  a  report  on  your  ship 
for  me,  and  then  I  'phoned  the  New  York  Yard  and 
just  flew  for  Washington." 

"Why  —  why  was  that,  Louise?"  he  stammered 
foolishly. 

"Because  I  was  afraid  you  were  not  coming  to  see 
me,"  she  confessed,  with  a  shade  of  embarrassment. 
"I  heard  that  you  —  that  you  had  been  badly  hurt. 
I  met  an  officer  who  saw  you  in  Queenstown,  and  — 
and  —  you  used  to  be  quite  vain,  Owen,  dear." 

He  was  holding  fast  to  her  hand  as  they  walked 
to  the  entrance  and  out  into  the  sunlight.  Through 
a  rift  of  the  trees  the  flag  above  the  White  House 
caught  their  eyes.  It  seemed  to  explain  many  things 
that  could  be  left  unspoken. 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


"You  knew  I  loved  you  before  I  went  across," 
said  Owen  as  they  strolled  toward  a  leafy  park. 
"But  I  was  pretty  poor  stuff,  a  man  with  a  rotten 
spot  in  him." 

"Perhaps  I  saw  that,  too,"  she  candidly  admitted. 
"Do  you  remember  that  afternoon  when  we  watched 
the  destroyer  division  steam  out  to  sea?  You  did  n't 
want  to  go,  for  all  your  fine  speeches.  I  sensed  it, 
and  it  hurt  me  terribly." 

"And  you  cared,  even  then?"  exclaimed  the  chief 
gunner's  mate.  His  scarred  features  were  aglow  with 
courage  unquenchable,  with  the  love  that  passeth 
all  understanding,  so  that  in  the  sight  of  the  girl  at 
his  side  he  was  everything  she  desired. 

"I  cared,  Owen,  and  therefore  I  hoped,"  answered 
Louise. 

His  reply  was  wholly  irrelevant,  but  she  nodded 
as  though  it  were  perfectly  satisfactory. 

"If  you  are  willing  to  marry  me  before  the  Bonanza 
sails,  I  should  like  to  ask  Mr.  Biddecott  to  come  to 
the  wedding  as  best  man.  There  is  n't  much  style 
about  him,  but  —  " 

"But  he  also  stood  the  test,  Owen,  dear.  I  under 
stand,"  smiled  Louise. 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE 

COMMANDER  WALTER  LOWRY  had  been  tied  to  a 
desk  in  the  Bureau  of  Operations  during  the  first 
half-year  of  the  war.  His  duties  were  exacting,  and 
he  performed  them  so  well  that  his  repeated  requests 
for  active  service  overseas  were  firmly  denied.  One 
jubilant  friend  after  another  had  dropped  in  to  say 
good-bye  before  joining  the  destroyer  fleet,  and 
Lowry  envied  them  as  the  luckiest  men  alive. 

He  was  the  type  of  naval  officer  whom  you  would 
have  expected  to  find  afloat  —  a  robust  physique, 
decisive  manner,  and  a  will  quietly  masterful.  The 
pity  of  it  was,  as  he  wistfully  pondered  the  situation, 
that  he  knew  the  destroyer  game  better  than  most 
of  them.  He  had  been  senior  officer  of  a  division 
during  those  arduous  weeks  of  secret  drill  in  southern 
waters  while  the  war  clouds  were  gathering,  but  the 
flotillas  had  sailed  for  Queenstown  without  him. 

His  character  was  too  finely  tempered,  too  well 
disciplined,  to  sulk  under  restraint,  but  he  began  to 
wonder  if  there  might  be  a  flaw  in  his  record  afloat. 
The  Navy  seldom  forgives  and  never  forgets  a  mis 
take.  Lowry  was  unable  to  dismiss  this  unhappy 
surmise,  failing  to  realize  that  he  had  become  unduly 
sensitive,  perhaps  a  little  morbid,  with  the  strain  of 
unremitting  work  and  responsibility. 

His  chief  was  a  four-starred  admiral,  which  rank 
is  the  exalted  limit,  as  you  may  know,  but  he  was 


228 SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

also  a  human  being.  This  was  why  he  said,  in  his 
brusque  way,  to  the  lesser  admiral  who  directed  the 
Bureau  of  Navigation: 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  to  lose  Commander 
Lowry,  but  he  seems  to  be  going  a  bit  stale.  Nothing 
serious  —  I  have  no  complaints  to  make  —  I  think 
you  had  better  find  another  berth  for  him." 

"Very  well,  sir.  I  will  send  him  to  sea.  I  recom 
mended  him  very  highly,  you  may  remember,  so  I 
hope  he  has  not  fallen  down  - 

"Not  at  all.  Please  don't  misunderstand  me,"  was 
the  emphatic  reply.  "I  have  become  fond  of  Lowry 
personally  which  may  be  why  I  notice  —  er  —  the 
little  things.  He  mopes  without  being  aware  of  it, 
and  is  losing  his  keen  edge.  He  takes  the  war  hard 
and  worries  too  much.  A  change  of  air  is  the  medi 
cine,  eh?" 

"Then  I  will  give  him  a  destroyer,  sir.  The 
Burnham  is  due  at  Liverpool  for  an  overhaul  and 
her  skipper  is  coming  home  on  sick-leave." 

The  four-starred  admiral  nodded  graciously  and 
strode  into  the  corridor,  and  for  all  his  sixty  years  and 
his  white  hair  he  wished  in  his  heart  that  he  might  be 
clinging  to  the  bridge  of  a  bucking  destroyer  in  the 
submarine  zone.  To  Commander  Walter  Lowry  the 
sudden  sailing  orders  were  like  a  summons  to  a  holi 
day.  He  was  coming  into  his  own,  returning  to  the 
boisterous  sea  and  a  ship  to  do  his  bidding,  and  in 
stantly  forgotten  was  the  fear  that  he  had  been 
thought  unfit  for  such  a  task.  At  twenty-four  hours' 
notice  he  took  passage  in  an  American  liner  bound 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  229 

out  of  New  York,  and  would  have  smiled  at  a  lands 
man's  suggestion  that  crossing  the  Atlantic  in  war 
time  was  an  unpleasant  adventure. 

Instead  of  tediously  plodding  with  a  convoy  of 
cargo  boats,  this  liner  ran  alone  and  trusted  to  her 
heels  to  dodge  the  ambushed  enemy.  A  hundred 
bluejackets  manned  the  battery  of  five-inch  rifles, 
and  nothing  disgusted  them  more  than  a  peaceful 
voyage.  The  steamer  carried  a  mere  handful  of 
passengers  whose  errands  were  urgent  or  official. 
Vanished  were  the  hordes  of  tourists  who  had  for 
merly  filled  her  cabins.  Commander  Lowry  was 
glad  to  find  several  other  naval  officers  aboard,  and 
they  flocked  together  after  the  clannish  manner  of 
their  kind  while  the  khaki  of  the  Army  was  grouped 
at  other  tables  in  the  dining-saloon. 

The  few  civilians  were  less  sociably  inclined.  They 
seemed  to  regard  each  other  with  a  certain  polite 
but  suspicious  scrutiny,  and  conversation  was  no 
ticeably  guarded.  Rumor  was  busy,  as  usual  —  that 
the  fat  man  who  dozed  in  the  smoking-room  over 
a  bottle  of  beer  was  really  an  agent  of  the  British 
secret  service;  that  the  purser  had  searched  the 
luggage  of  the  affable  Belgian  gentleman;  that  a 
bomb  had  been  discovered  in  a  coal  bunker;  that 
five  U-boats  had  been  ordered  to  hunt  down  and 
destroy  this  audacious  Yankee  liner  which  had  so 
often  defied  them.  Meanwhile  the  chief  engineer,  upon 
whose  broad  shoulders  rested  the  burden  of  salva 
tion,  played  pinochle  with  the  captain  of  a  torpedoed 
transport  and  refused  to  borrow  trouble. 


230  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Day  after  day  the  lonely  steamer  hastened  east 
ward  over  a  sea  from  which  shipping  had  almost  dis 
appeared.  At  length  it  was  perceived  that  she  was 
being  driven  to  the  utmost,  to  the  last  knot  of  speed, 
and  the  passengers  walked  the  deck  grotesquely 
girdled  with  life-preservers  while  the  Navy  gun  crews 
stood  instantly  ready  for  action.  Commander  Lowry 
and  the  other  officers  were  assigned  to  special  duty 
by  the  master  of  the  steamer  and  stood  their  watches 
on  the  bridge  as  extra  lookouts.  Their  training  made 
them  useful  for  such  an  emergency  in  which  keen 
vision  and  the  utmost  vigilance  were  vital  factors  of 
safety. 

To  Lowry  there  was  nothing  irksome  in  this  vol 
unteer  service.  Idleness  bored  him,  and  he  was  glad 
to  assume  a  little  share  of  the  responsibility  which 
the  ship's  company  had  faced  through  voyage  after 
voyage  with  a  matter-of-fact  courage  that  was  su 
premely  admirable.  During  the  first  night  in  the 
danger  zone,  while  the  darkened  steamer  dodged 
on  her  zigzag  courses  and  the  decks  trembled  to  the 
fevered  beat  of  the  engines,  Lowry  went  on  duty  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  weather  was  clear 
and  the  breeze  had  died.  The  tranquil  sea  was  un- 
vexed  by  breaking  waves.  It  slumbered  beneath  the 
stars  which  dimmed  as  the  gleam  of  dawn  changed 
the  dusky  surface  to  a  burnished  gray.  The  eastern 
horizon  was  almost  cloudless,  and  the  master  of  the 
liner  was  gazing  at  it  as  he  said  to  Lowry: 

"It  will  be  a  bright  sunrise.  I  never  saw  a  finer 
morning.  Ideal  conditions  for  submarine  attack." 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  231 

"Couldn't  be  better,  sir.  It's  a  favorite  trick  of 
theirs  to  get  between  a  vessel  and  the  rising  sun." 

"I  know,"  said  the  skipper.  "One  of  the  pirates 
shelled  me  last  voyage  —  carried  away  rny  radio 
wires  and  spattered  the  deck  with  shrapnel;  but  the 
sea  was  too  rough  for  him  to  do  much  fancy  shooting 
and  his  torpedo  missed  our  stern  by  a  dozen  feet." 

Soon  the  morning  glowed  serene  and  brilliant. 
The  liner  was  destined  to  pass  unharmed  through 
this  critical  hour  of  the  voyage.  Her  time  had  not 
come.  Peril  was  still  hidden  and  imminent,  however, 
and  the  tense  readiness  was  unrelaxed.  The  clock  in 
the  wheel-house  tinkled  eight  bells,  and  Commander 
Walter  Lowry  clambered  down  the  stairway  with  a 
wire-edged  appetite  for  breakfast.  Wearing  a  fleece- 
lined  jacket  under  the  life-belt,  trousers  tucked  into 
the  destroyer-man's  long  leather  boots,  a  knitted  cap 
pulled  over  his  ears,  he  looked  like  a  rough-and- 
ready  sailor  as  he  passed  along  the  promenade  deck 
to  his  room.  Glancing  aft,  he  hesitated,  his  tired 
eyes  brightened,  and  then  he  advanced  to  meet  the 
woman  who  had  greeted  him  with  a  cheery  wave  of 
the  hand. 

Lowry  was  still  youthful,  but  fancy  free,  and  his 
profession  had  been  his  mistress.  A  hard-headed 
streak  had  made  him  impatient  with  the  sentimen 
tal  ensigns  and  lieutenants  who  were  forever  falling 
in  love  and  out  again  and  making  infernal  asses  of 
themselves.  As  for  marriage,  it  was  a  poor  proposi 
tion  for  a  naval  officer  condemned  to  exile  from  home 
and  pinched  for  income.  Still  true  to  this  practical 


232  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

doctrine,  Lowry  nevertheless  was  conscious  of  a 
slight  flutter  in  the  region  of  his  heart  at  sight  of 
this  passenger  who  had  honored  him  with  her  ac 
quaintance.  She  was  English,  Lady  Violet  Cham- 
berlayne  by  name,  and  gossip  had  it  that  the  due 
process  of  law  had  released  her  from  an  exceedingly 
useless  husband.  Her  mission  to  the  United  States 
had  concerned  some  Allied  war  charity,  and  because 
she  was  traveling  alone  her  fellow  voyagers  displayed 
a  friendly  interest,  but  she  maintained  a  courteous  re 
serve.  Commander  Walter  Lowry  was  the  exception. 

As  she  stood  at  the  steamer's  rail,  he  admired  her 
with  the  discernment  of  a  man  of  excellent,  even 
critical,  taste.  Her  fair  coloring  had  no  need  to  seek 
the  aid  of  the  beauty  parlor  and  the  charm  of  girl 
hood  lingered  in  her  eyes  and  on  her  lips.  Lowry 
had  often  expressed  a  rude  contempt  for  beautiful 
dolls,  but  this  slender  Englishwoman  with  the  thor 
oughbred  air  appealed  to  him  as  being  singularly 
intelligent  and  efficient.  He  smiled  his  frank  approval 
as  he  said: 

"You  must  have  turned  out  early,  too,  Lady 
Chamberlayne,  but  it  was  not  a  case  of  nerves,  I'm 
sure." 

"Oh,  no!  I  like  a  stroll  before  breakfast,  and  this 
air  is  superb.  The  old  gentleman  from  New  Zealand 
just  now  confessed  to  me  that  he  spent  the  night  in  a 
deck  chair.  You  know  who  I  mean.  He  wears  one 
of  those  inflated  rubber  suits  equipped  with  a  lunch 
hamper  and  a  brandy  flask  and  an  electric  light. 
Such  an  extraordinary  person ! " 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  233 

"He  can  cruise  under  his  own  power  if  Fritz  slips 
a  tin  fish  into  us,"  laughed  Lowry.  "He  will  feel 
easier  when  a  few  American  destroyers  pick  us  up. 
They  ought  to  find  us  some  time  this  forenoon." 

"How  splendid!  And  they  will  take  us  safely  into 
port?  But  how  will  your  ships  know  where  we  are?" 

"A  secret  rendezvous,"  answered  the  commander, 
with  a  perceptible  shade  of  reserve.  He  was  in 
stinctively  cautious  concerning  the  silent  operations 
of  his  Service. 

"How  stupid  of  me!  It  is  arranged  beforehand,  of 
course!"  exclaimed  Lady  Violet  Chamberlayne.  "I 
have  seen  almost  nothing  of  your  American  Navy. 
Its  officers  are  delightful  men,  although  I  have  met 
only  one  or  two." 

"Thank  you.  I  am  jealous  of  the  other  one,"  said 
Lowry,  with  a  bow. 

"Well  done!  An  Englishman  would  have  missed 
the  chance  to  pay  a  compliment.  And  you  are  to 
command  one  of  these  dashing  destroyers?  Has  your 
Admiralty  sent  many  of  them  across?" 

"A  few.  Possibly  more  or  less,"  was  the  enigmatical 
reply,  and  Lowry's  voice  was  almost  curt. 

Sensitive  to  the  implied  rebuke,  Lady  Violet  flushed 
as  she  protested: 

"That  is  quite  horrid  of  you,  Commander  Lowry. 
I  resent  your  manner." 

Penitently  he  begged  her  pardon,  explaining  that 
he  was  forbidden  to  discuss  such  matters  as  this. 
Just  then  he  happened  to  glance  over  her  shoulder 
at  the  sea.  Motionless  he  stared  with  eyes  so  intent, 


234  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

so  wholly  oblivious  of  his  companion,  that  she  turned 
her  head  to  discover  what  had  startled  him.  He  was 
deaf  to  her  query.  The  wake  of  the  steamer  was  a 
white  pathway  of  foam  which  merged  again,  after  a 
few  hundred  yards,  into  the  untroubled  blue  of  the 
ocean  while  much  farther  astern  one  small  wave 
broke  and  flashed  in  the  sunlight.  Lowry  touched 
Lady  Violet's  arm  and  indicated  this  wave  which 
showed  like  a  bit  of  snow  on  an  azure  carpet. 

"I  see  it,"  said  she,  "but  why  are  you  so  fright 
fully  interested?  Our  ship  made  it,  I  presume,  or  a 
little  breeze  is  springing  up." 

"That  gleam  of  broken  water  is  four  thousand 
yards  behind  us  —  two  miles,"  he  spoke  up  sharply. 
"And  it  does  n't  vanish  nor  does  it  stay  in  the  same 
place.  And  the  swell  is  not  even  ruffled  anywhere 
else  about  it.  The  wave  is  chasing  us,  and  this  ship 
never  made  it." 

"A  submarine?"  cried  Lady  Violet,  more  excited 
than  alarmed. 

"Precisely  that.  What  you  see  is  the  bow  wave  of  a 
submarine  running  awash  at  full  speed." 

"But  is  our  captain  asleep?  And  what  are  your 
Navy  gunners  doing?  Why  don't  they  open  fire  and 
sink  it?" 

"Because  that  U-boat  came  up  and  sighted  us  just 
a  few  minutes  too  late.  We  had  passed  her  line  of 
range.  She  won't  shoot  at  us  because  we  are  too  small 
a  target  end  on,  and  we  are  ever  so  much  faster. 
This  liner  is  armed  for  defensive  warfare,  carrying 
mail  and  passengers.  It's  the  skipper's  business  to 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  235 

get  them  safely  through  the  danger  zone.  And  that 
U-boat  yonder  is  perfectly  harmless,  so  far  as  we  are 
concerned.  Our  bluejackets  would  stand  one  chance 
in  a  hundred  of  putting  a  shell  into  her  at  that  dis 
tance  and  she  would  submerge  at  the  flash  of  a  gun. 
Fritzie,  boy,  you  are  out  of  luck  this  time." 

Silently  they  watched  the  white  wave  increase  its 
distance  from  the  steamer  until  it  was  lost  to  view. 
There  were  no  other  passengers  on  deck.  The  ship's 
officers  would  tell  them  nothing  about  the  episode. 
Such  stories  were  not  apt  to  soothe  the  nerves  of 
timid  persons.  It  had  been  touch  and  go,  disaster 
shaved  by  the  narrowest  margin  of  luck. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  we'll  keep  this  to  ourselves," 
said  Lowry. 

Lady  Violet  still  stood  very  near  him,  her  sleeve 
brushing  his.  Her  cheek  seemed  a  trifle  pale,  but  her 
composure  was  unshaken.  The  peril  whose  realization 
they  shared  had  given  them  a  sense  of  companion 
ship,  sudden  and  almost  intimate. 

"I  am  fond  of  secrets,  and  this  is  a  thriller,"  she 
replied.  "I  suggest  we  go  down  to  breakfast.  My  head 
feels  rather  queer.  Your  Yankee  destroyers  can't  hop 
along  too  soon  to  please  me." 

Two  hours  after  this,  several  faint  smudges  of 
smoke  lifted  above  the  sky-line,  and  surprisingly 
soon  the  tiny  funnels  were  visible.  They  came  rushing 
out  of  the  eastward,  eager  and  tireless  —  these  four 
American  destroyers  of  the  Queenstown  fleet  on  con 
voy  duty  bound.  The  fantastic  patterns  of  dazzle- 
paint  which  streaked  their  hulls  produced  curious 


236  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

illusions.  It  was  difficult  to  say  with  certainty  in  what 
direction  they  were  heading  and  their  outlines  were 
blurred.  The  low  prows  ripped  the  smooth  sea  apart 
or  nosed  into  the  gentle  swell  and  flung  it  in  sparkling 
sheets. 

Commander  Walter  Lowry  watched  them  as  they 
approached  the  liner  and  then  veered  and  wheeled  to 
hold  their  stations  abreast  or  scouted  a  little  in  ad 
vance.  One  of  them  sheered  close  alongside,  and  an 
officer  bawled  from  her  hooded  bridge: 

"Hello,  Lowry,  old  scout!  Glad  you're  going  to 
join  us!  Good  stuff!  This  is  the  life!" 

"Right  you  are!"  Lowry  shouted  back,  his  manly 
face  beaming  with  pleasure.  To  Lady  Violet,  who  had 
joined  him,  he  explained: 

"That  boat  was  in  my  division  last  year.  Her  skip 
per  and  I  were  classmates  at  Annapolis." 

The  speeding  destroyer,  so  fragile  in  appearance,  so 
audacious  in  action,  darted  across  the  liner's  bow  as  a 
pilot  fish  plays  around  a  shark.  Lady  Violet  exclaimed, 
with  a  happy  sigh  of  relief: 

"I  feel  perfectly  safe,  Mr.  Lowry!  It  will  be  such  a 
comfort  to-night  to  know  that  those  brave  boats  of 
yours  are  protecting  us  out  there  in  the  darkness.  But 
what  if  the  weather  should  be  rough?" 

"Wait  and  see.  The  barometer  is  dropping.  There 
will  be  wind  before  long.  A  destroyer  has  some  extra 
motions  of  her  own,  but  you  can't  drown  them." 

In  her  candid,  artless  manner  the  lovely  English 
woman  asked  many  questions  which  the  occasion 
quite  naturally  prompted.  How  were  the  destroyers 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  237 

operated  to  coordinate  with  the  British  naval  forces? 
Was  there  friction  between  the  two  services?  Was 
America  likely  to  send  her  big  fighting  ships  across  to 
join  the  Grand  Fleet?  Was  it  actually  true  that  sub 
marines  were  trapped  in  nets  and  that  listening  de 
vices  could  detect  the  vibrations  of  their  engines 
miles  and  miles  away?  Could  a  huge  American  army 
be  transported  and  supplied  so  far  from  home? 

Lowry  was  evasive  or  pretended  ignorance.  In  the 
Bureau  of  Operations  at  Washington  he  had  been 
intimately  in  touch  with  the  secret  plans  and  activi 
ties  of  the  Allied  naval  organizations  which  guarded 
the  Seven  Seas  from  the  English  Channel  to  the  Bay  of 
Bengal.  He  had  repented  of  his  seeming  rudeness  ear 
lier  in  the  day.  It  was  preposterous  to  suspect  Lady 
Chamberlayne  of  any  ulterior  motive.  In  the  purser's 
room  after  breakfast  he  had  adroitly  pumped  that 
experienced  man  for  information.  Lady  Violet  was 
very  well  known  in  London  society,  it  seemed,  and  a 
sister  of  a  Cabinet  Minister.  Her  war  work  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  the  families  of  Canadian  soldiers, 
and  her  credentials  were  bang-up.  The  captain  had 
received  special  instructions  from  the  company's 
office  to  look  after  her  during  the  voyage.  The  purser 
puffed  a  black  pipe  and  eyed  Commander  Lowry  with 
the  mellowed  tolerance  of  a  philosopher.  He  was  fa 
miliar  with  the  symptoms.  Lady  Violet  was  the  sort 
to  bowl  'em  over  right  and  left.  This  fine  Navy  chap 
was  sitting  up  and  taking  notice. 

Before  nightfall  the  weather  turned  nasty,  a  strong 
head  wind  with  gusts  of  rain.  Lowry  tramped  the 


238  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

deck  alone  until  the  destroyers  became  shrouded  in 
the  murk.  Now  and  then  he  caught  glimpses  of  one 
or  another,  mere  shadows  with  the  white  water  rush 
ing  past  them  as  they  hovered  close  to  the  steamer. 
He  well  knew  the  risks  they  ran  of  collision,  without 
lights  to  guide  or  warn  them,  and  the  towering  bulk  of 
the  liner  threatening  to  stamp  them  under.  It  was 
seamanship  and  pluck  to  thrill  the  heart  of  an  old 
destroyer-man.  Regardless  of  cold  or  fatigue,  he 
resolved  to  spend  the  night  on  the  bridge  instead  of 
standing  merely  a  four-hour  watch.  It  was  his  busi 
ness  to  learn  how  his  fellow  captains  of  the  Service 
played  this  rough-and-tumble  convoy  game. 

He  lingered  a  little  while  after  dinner,  hoping  for  a 
chat  with  Lady  Violet  in  the  library,  but  she  was  deep 
in  conversation  with  a  Congressman  who  was  going 
to  see  the  war  for  himself.  Lowry  felt  annoyed  and 
perplexed.  The  record  of  this  particular  legislator  was 
most  objectionable.  He  had  opposed  war  with  Ger 
many,  voted  against  arming  American  merchant 
ships,  and  denounced  conscription.  Personally  he  was 
blatant  and  crude,  and  Lowry  had  fled  from  his  ha 
rangues  in  the  smoking-room  which  betrayed  an  ig 
norance  of  international  affairs  that  was  almost  in 
credible.  He  was  something  for  a  decent  American  to 
feel  ashamed  of,  and  yet  Lady  Violet  was  getting  on 
with  him  in  cordial  fashion  and  he  appeared  flattered 
by  her  attention. 

Lowry  retreated  abruptly,  slamming  the  door  as  he 
went  on  deck  and  made  his  way  to  the  navigators' 
bridge.  The  wind  had  increased  to  a  gale  and  the  liner 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  239 

was  plunging  heavily.  The  destroyers  were  unseen, 
but  now  and  again  a  spark  of  light  flashed  from  a  sig 
nal  mast  and  was  answered  like  a  cheery  "Hello,  are 
you  there?"  Lowry  could  fancy  the  narrow  hulls  roll 
ing  wildly,  half-submerged,  the  deck  watch  clinging 
to  life-lines,  a  mess-boy  clawing  his  way  up  an  iron 
ladder  with  a  pot  of  red-hot  coffee  for  the  officers 
behind  the  spray-swept  screen. 

"And  we  are  setting  a  pace  of  nineteen  knots  for 
the  poor  devils,"  he  said  to  himself.  "In  these  head 
seas  they  must  be  smashing  clean  through  it  with  no 
chance  to  ease  up.  Well,  I'm  not  sorry  for  'em,  for 
they  would  n't  swap  jobs  with  anybody  afloat." 

Eleven  o'clock  came  before  he  went  below  for  a 
brief  respite.  Passing  through  the  library,  he  was  sur 
prised  to  discover  that  Lady  Violet  Chamberlayne 
was  still  talking  with  the  impossible  Congressman 
whom  the  high-minded  naval  officer  regarded  as  a 
shabby  traitor  to  the  flag  and  the  cause.  A  sleepy 
steward  hovered  in  the  passageway,  waiting  to  turn 
out  the  lights.  The  other  voyagers  had  gone  to  their 
rooms.  This  made  the  prolonged  interview  seem  con 
fidential.  Unable  to  fathom  the  situation,  but  more 
disturbed  than  he  would  have  cared  to  admit,  Com 
mander  Lowry  was  of  the  opinion  that  one  could  al 
ways  learn  something  new  about  women.  He  mulled 
over  it,  more  or  less,  during  the  long  night's  vigil  and 
turned  in  soon  after  dawn. 

At  noon  he  found  Lady  Violet  in  a  sheltered  corner 
of  the  deck.  She  hailed  him  in  passing,  and  at  sight 
of  her  his  puzzled  doubts  seemed  to  blow  away  with 


240  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  wind.  Waving  her  hand  at  a  destroyer  which 
wallowed  in  a  driving  smother  of  foam,  she  gayly 
exclaimed : 

"I  think  a  lot  of  you,  Mr.  Lowry,  because  you  wish 
you  were  out  yonder!  Now  don't  spoil  it  by  saying 
something  pretty  to  me.  You  would  desert  me  like  a 
shot  if  you  thought  you  could  manage  a  flying  leap  to 
the  nearest  destroyer." 

"We  have  to  get  on  with  the  war,"  he  parried, 
matching  her  mood.  "It  would  put  me  in  the  deuce 
of  a  dilemma  — 

"Like  the  donkey  between  two  bundles  of  hay? 
Seriously,  I  am  rather  proud  to  know  a  man  of  your 
sort.  I  very  much  hope  you  will  care  to  look  me  up  in 
London." 

He  thanked  her,  but  the  trace  of  hesitancy,  the 
shadow  on  his  face,  betrayed  his  thoughts  to  her 
quick  perception.  Casually  she  remarked: 

"You  scowled  at  me  last  evening  in  the  library. 
Was  I  so  very  shocking?  This  member  of  your  Con 
gress  was  most  diverting.  He  has  a  wife  and  four  chil 
dren  in  some  Western  town  —  the  name  of  it  sounds 
like  a  settlement  of  red  Indians  —  but  I  rather  fancy 
he  was  trying  to  flirt  with  me.  He  asked  me  to  dine 
at  the  Ritz." 

"The  State  Department  couldn't  refuse  him  a 
passport,  I  suppose,"  vehemently  replied  Commander 
Lowry,  "but  he  is  an  elegant  specimen  to  be  roaming 
at  large  in  France  and  England." 

"His  point  of  view  diverted  me,"  calmly  returned 
Lady  Violet.  "He  is  so  unspoiled,  so  primitive." 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  241 

"About  the  war,  for  instance." 

"Oh,  I  disagreed  with  him  there,"  she  sweetly  in 
sisted,  "but  he  talked  mostly  about  himself  and  his 
career.  Middle-aged  men  are  apt  to  renew  the  egotism 
of  extreme  youth." 

"When  a  pretty  woman  encourages  them  to  make 
blithering  idiots  of  themselves,"  said  Lowry. 

"There  is  a  rude  streak  in  you.  I  am  convinced  of 
it,"  she  returned.  "And  American  men  are  reputed 
to  be  so  chivalrous." 

"I  am  sorry  if  honesty  is  to  be  rated  as  a  failing, 
Lady  Chamberlayne,"  was  the  grave  retort. 

She  was  evidently  tired  of  the  banter  which  had 
taken  a  turn  too  earnest  to  be  agreeable.  Gazing  sea 
ward  again,  she  carelessly  exclaimed: 

"Your  larger  destroyers  —  the  thousand-ton  class 
—  would  find  it  easier  cruising  so  far  offshore.  It 
must  be  fearfully  uncomfortable  in  those  'flivvers." 

Lowry  stared  at  her,  and  the  color  surged  into  his 
cheek.  She  had  professed  a  complete  ignorance  of 
naval  matters  and  he  had  been  more  than  careful  to 
avoid  the  technical  details  of  his  trade.  It  was  for 
bidden,  and  he  was  one  to  obey  orders  to  the  letter. 
None  of  the  other  officers  on  the  passenger  list  had 
met  her.  It  was  not  so  much  the  information  disclosed 
as  the  easy,  familiar  use  of  seafaring  phrases  that 
startled  him.  "Flivver"  was  peculiar  to  the  jargon  of 
the  American  destroyer-man  as  applied  to  the  six- 
hundred-ton  boats  which  had  crossed  to  Queenstown 
in  those  early  divisions.  One  of  Lowry's  own  pals, 
yarning  in  a  ward-room,  might  have  used  precisely 


242  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

the  same  words  which  she  had  spoken  with  such  off 
hand  assurance.  It  was  a  trifle,  perhaps,  but  Lowry 
noted  a  subtle  discord,  and  he  had  been  trained  dur 
ing  his  months  at  a  desk  to  be  alert  to  the  value  of 
small  things. 

Lady  Violet  had  turned  quickly  to  face  him,  biting 
her  lip  as  though  conscious  of  having  blundered.  His 
grim  silence  was  an  accusation,  for  he  was  unable  to 
dissemble  his  feelings.  She  held  her  head  erect  and 
her  dark  eyes  challenged  him.  Obviously  she  was 
unafraid  and  he  admired  courage.  Deliberately  he 
exclaimed : 

"If  the  'flivvers'  develop  any  structural  weakness 
in  this  unusually  heavy  work,  the  American  Navy  is 
resourceful  enough  to  keep  them  in  service,  I  imagine." 

"Small  comfort  for  the  enemy  in  that,"  said  Lady 
Violet,  with  a  nervous  laugh.  It  was  apparent  that 
she  had  not  quite  recovered  her  wonted  poise.  "  The 
motion  of  the  ship  is  abominable  this  morning.  Would 
you  mind  tucking  me  in  a  deck  chair?  I  shall  be  poor 
company,  I  fear.  I  am  a  fair-weather  sailor." 

Lowry  did  not  see  her  on  deck  again  until  the  gale 
subsided.  The  liner  had  safely  traversed  the  wide  At 
lantic,  and  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  U-boats  lurking  in 
the  narrow  Irish  Sea.  The  faithful  destroyers  escorted 
her  until  she  passed  the  lightship  off  the  Mersey  bar 
and  then  they  turned  to  hasten  to  their  base  at  Queens- 
town.  Waiting  tugs  nudged  the  steamer  into  a  basin 
among  the  gray  docks  of  Liverpool  and  a  swarm  of 
officials  climbed  the  gangway.  They  herded  the  pas 
sengers  into  the  dining-saloon  and  bade  them  file  to  a 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  243 

table  one  by  one.  Two  British  sergeants  of  the  Mili 
tary  Police  stood  by,  awaiting  orders,  while  a  cour 
teous  gentleman  of  few  words  examined  passports 
and  demanded  other  documents.  His  curiosity  was 
insatiable. 

Commander  Lowry  was  permitted  to  pass  without 
delay.  He  stepped  aside  and  watched  the  perform 
ance  with  lively  interest.  The  system  was  elaborate 
and  it  operated  with  uncanny  smoothness.  The  Bel 
gian,  who  had  been  regarded  with  dark  suspicions 
on  shipboard,  was  approved  with  no  more  than  a 
glance  at  his  papers.  The  sleepy  fat  man,  whom  the 
passengers  had  agreed  was  an  agent  of  the  British 
secret  service,  found  himself  subjected  to  an  inquisi 
tion.  His  private  letters  were  scrutinized,  dozens  of 
questions  were  hurled  at  him,  other  officials  were 
called  into  consultation,  and,  at  length,  the  two  strap 
ping  sergeants  whisked  him  away  to  a  stateroom  to 
be  locked  up  and  searched  to  the  skin  while  other 
Tommies  tore  his  luggage  apart  and  even  split  the 
soles  of  his  shoes. 

"They  seem  to  have  his  number,"  said  Lowry  to 
the  purser. 

"It's  not  easy  to  get  ashore  in  this  tight  little  isle 
unless  you  are  strictly  all  right,"  was  the  reply.  "That 
noisy  Congressman  will  be  allowed  to  land,  but  he 
will  be  kept  under  surveillance.  His  record  was  cabled 
ahead  of  him." 

Lady  Violet  Chamberlayne  was  not  even  requested 
to  appear  at  the  table.  Among  those  first  to  board  the 
ship  was  an  elderly  man  of  unquestionable  distinc- 


244  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

tion.  The  deference  paid  him  was  almost  obsequious. 
Tall  and  stooping,  wearing  his  clothes  with  a  touch 
of  careless  indifference  to  the  fashion,  the  aquiline 
features,  the  manner  blandly  superior,  stamped  him 
as  a  Briton  of  the  ruling  class.  He  kissed  Lady  Violet 
on  both  cheeks,  chucked  her  under  the  chin,  and  called 
her  "Doodles"  with  the  most  affectionate  ardor.They 
withdrew  to  a  quiet  corner  from  which  she  emerged 
to  beckon  Lowry  who  had  been  an  observer  of  the 
fond  reunion. 

"My  father,  Lord  Chamberlayne,"  said  she,  in 
presenting  him.  "Dad,  this  is  Commander  Lowry  of 
the  American  Navy.  He  has  been  very  kind  to  your 
wandering  child." 

"Delighted,  I'm  sure,"  cordially  exclaimed  the 
titled  personage.  "I  had  the  pleasure  of  dining  with 
your  Admiral  Sims  last  night.  We  like  him  tremen 
dously  over  here.  Blood  is  thicker  than  water,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  Staff  duty,  Commander  Lowry? 
You  will  be  in  London,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,  Dad!"  cried  Lady  Violet.  "He  is 
a  fighting  sailor.  All  he  wants  to  make  him  happy  is 
a  destroyer." 

"How  sporting!  Here's  to  a  lucky  cruise!  Well,  we 
must  be  bustling  along.  Will  you  share  a  compart 
ment  to  London  with  us,  Commander  Lowry?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,  but  my  orders  are  for  Liverpool." 

Lady  Violet  said  good-bye  with  a  wistful  shadow 
in  her  eyes  and  her  hand  seemed  to  linger  in  Lowry's 
clasp.  Impulsively  he  regretted  his  vague,  suspicious 
conjectures  which  appeared  to  him  as  wild  and  fan- 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  245 

ciful  now  that  the  tension  of  the  voyage  was  relaxed. 
He  would  have  told  her  something  to  this  effect,  but 
her  noble  parent  was  already  bustling  her  along  to  the 
wharf.  Lowry  was  getting  his  luggage  together  when 
a  lieutenant  of  his  own  Service  boarded  the  ship  and 
found  him  after  a  hasty  search.  Short  of  breath,  he 
explained : 

"I  am  the  executive  officer  of  the  Burnham.  This 
wire  just  came  through  for  you  from  London  Head 
quarters  and  I  jumped  in  a  taxi  to  catch  you  before 
you  went  ashore." 

Lowry  read  the  telegram  and  felt  bewildered.  It 
detached  him  from  command  of  the  destroyer  Burn- 
ham  and  instructed  him  to  proceed  without  delay  to 
London  for  special  duty  ashore.  Endeavoring  to  hide 
his  distress,  he  thanked  the  lieutenant  and  inquired : 

"Who  is  to  take  the  Burnham  ?  Do  you  know?  " 

"  I  am  to  have  her  temporarily,  until  the  overhaul 
is  completed." 

"I  hope  you  can  take  her  to  sea,"  courteously  ob 
served  Lowry. 

The  lieutenant  surmised  that  things  had  gone  wrong 
for  this  senior  officer,  but  he  made  no  comment  and 
punctiliously  offered  his  taxi.  They  rode  in  silence  to 
the  railway  station  where  Lowry  took  pains  to  avoid 
meeting  Lady  Violet  and  Lord  Chamberlayne.  This 
change  of  orders,  so  abrupt  and  undreamed-of,  was  a 
wretched  anticlimax.  Life  had  become  flat  and  insipid. 
Again  he  saw  the  destroyers  plunging  through  the 
darkness  and  the  gale,  playing  the  finest  game  in  the 
world,  and  his  one  desire  had  been  to  share  the  labor 


246  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

and  the  peril  of  their  splendid  adventure.  And  it  had 
been  snatched  from  his  grasp.  Duty  was  his  religion, 
however,  and  he  pulled  himself  together  for  the  un 
happy  journey  to  London.  With  Lady  Violet  in  mind 
he  said  to  himself : 

"She  called  me  a  fighting  sailor!  It  would  be  some 
job  to  convince  her  that  I  was  n't  a  blooming  liar. 
Yankee  swank  and  bluff  —  that  is  how  she  would 
size  me  up  now.  The  dashing  destroyer-man!  More 
like  a  movie  hero.  Well,  I  wonder  what  put  a  crimp 
in  me  this  time?  I  am  barred  from  sea  duty  for  some 
fault  or  other." 

A  lonely  night  in  London  was  not  calculated  to 
brighten  his  low-spirited  humor.  Gloomy  streets  and 
wretched  food,  bad  news  from  Flanders,  and  an  un 
usually  wicked  air  raid  just  as  he  was  about  to  go  to 
a  theater  combined  to  increase  his  profound  distaste 
for  staff  duty  in  this  nightmarish  city.  He  was  out 
wardly  cheerful  and  undismayed  next  morning,  how 
ever,  when  he  reported  at  the  mansion  in  Grosvenor 
Gardens  above  whose  doorway  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
indicated  the  headquarters  of  the  vice-admiral  com 
manding  the  American  naval  forces  in  European 
waters.  The  chief-of-staff,  a  kindly,  grizzled  captain, 
said  as  they  shook  hands : 

"I  have  n't  seen  you  since  we  were  shipmates  on  a 
battleship  cruise.  You  feel  disappointed,  I  presume, 
to  be  shifted  from  the  Burnham." 

"Somewhat,  sir,"  replied  Lowry,  and  he  took  it 
smiling. 

"It  was  a  knock-down  blow,  for  an  old  destroyer- 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  247 

man,  but  — "  the  captain  hesitated,  fingered  the  pa 
pers  on  his  desk,  and  added,  "The  admiral  wishes  to 
see  you  personally.  I  wired  you  at  his  request." 

"Whew!  I  was  afraid  I  had  got  in  wrong  some 
how,  and  this  confirms  it!"  Lowry  could  not  help  ex 
claiming. 

"Not  necessarily,"  was  the  dry  comment.  "Wait  a 
moment.  I  think  you  can  go  in  at  once." 

Lowry  swallowed  hard  and  followed  an  aide  into 
a  spacious  room  adjoining.  The  vice-admiral  stood 
warming  himself  in  front  of  a  grate  fire  while  he  dic 
tated  letters  with  the  brisk  efficiency  of  a  rapid-fire 
gun.  Affable  as  usual,  but  going  straight  to  the  point, 
he  said  to  his  uneasy  visitor: 

"The  British  Admiralty  has  requested  me  to  de 
tail  an  officer  for  work  of  a  highly  confidential  and 
most  important  nature.  I  sent  your  name  this  morn 
ing  to  Commodore  Sir  Douglas  Hart  who  directs  the 
Naval  Intelligence  in  so  far  as  it  concerns  the  oper 
ations  of  the  German  submarines.  You  will  be  sta 
tioned  in  his  office.  It  is  not  ordinary  liaison  duty 
as  you  will  discover  for  yourself." 

"I  can  report  at  once,  sir,"  answered  Commander 
Lowry,  asking  no  questions. 

"Commodore  Hart  expects  you  at  noon.  Your  re 
ports  will  come  directly  to  me.  We  can  protect  our 
troop  convoys  and  maintain  an  army  of  two  million 
men  in  France.  The  fact  is  already  proven-  But  un 
less  the  losses  to  other  merchant  tonnage  can  be  de 
creased  by  fifty  per  cent,  England  will  be  starved  out 
of  the  war  by  the  end  of  the  winter,  and  that  means 


248  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

losing  the  war.  The  blue-water  problem  is  the  vital 
one.  Bear  this  in  mind,  Lowry.  I  have  no  instructions 
to  give  you,  but  I  strongly  advise  the  utmost  discre 
tion.  You  cannot  be  too  careful.  London  fairly  reeks 
with  German  espionage.  The  same  is  true  of  Washing 
ton,  I  imagine,  so  you  have  learned  to  watch  your 
step." 

The  admiral  pushed  a  button  to  recall  the  stenog 
rapher  and  Lowry  comprehended  that  the  interview 
was  closed.  Not  a  word  of  sympathy  for  his  grievous 
disappointment,  but  that  was  the  way  of  the  Service. 
He  should  have  felt  honored,  but  the  hurt  still  ran 
kled  as  he  set  out  on  foot  to  find  Whitehall  and  the 
gray  old  pile  of  buildings  which  housed  the  mighty 
organization  of  the  Admiralty.  When  the  hour  of  noon 
boomed  from  the  great  bell  in  the  Parliament  tower 
he  had  been  guided  through  dingy,  rambling  corri 
dors,  up  worn  staircases  of  stone,  to  a  room  in  which 
a  bright-eyed  little  man  was  poring  over  a  series  of 
charts  that  were  spread  upon  a  table  of  vast  dimen 
sions.  Tiny  flags  of  various  colors  were  stuck  here  and 
there  and  he  was  engaged  in  shifting  them  about. 
Lowry  glanced  at  the  broad  gold  stripe  on  his  sleeve 
and  said,  mentioning  his  own  name: 

"  Commodore  Hart?  Thank  you.  I  am  at  your  serv 
ice,  sir,  by  direction  of  the  vice-admiral  command 
ing  the  American  forces." 

"Ah,  my  dear  Lowry  —  the  pleasure  is  mine.  I  was 
informed  by  telephone  —  with  a  rather  careful  per 
sonal  description.  This  saved  sending  some  one  with 
you,  don't  you  know." 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  249 

"To  be  sure  I  was  myself?"  smiled  the  commander. 

"Right-o!  One  of  the  routine  precautions,"  chir 
ruped  the  sprightly  commodore  whose  gray  hair  was 
incongruous  with  his  boyish  energy.  "I  was  just 
checking  up  the  latest  reports  from  the  Dover  patrol. 
If  you  wish  to  see  how  this  little  game  is  played,  we'll 
carry  on  for  an  hour  and  then  go  out  for  a  bite  of 
luncheon." 

Together  they  studied  the  flag-dotted  charts  of  the 
Channel,  the  Irish  Sea,  the  North  Atlantic,  the  Bay 
of  Biscay,  and  the  Mediterranean,  and  Lowry  quickly 
comprehended  that  this  room  was  the  nerve-center, 
the  focus,  of  the  secret  warfare  against  the  enemy 
submarines  in  all  its  intricate  and  far-flung  activities. 
Night  and  day,  by  radio  and  telegraph,  through  agen 
cies  more  obscure  than  these,  the  information  was 
received  and  sifted,  analyzed,  compared.  From  the 
results  it  was  possible  to  deduce  the  number  of 
U-boats  at  sea  and  to  fix  their  areas  of  operation, 
even  to  trace  and  identify  their  separate  voyages. 
The  clues  came  in  from  torpedoed  merchant  steamers 
sinking  as  they  flashed  the  last  despairing  call  for 
help;  from  destroyers  with  their  convoys  far  at  sea; 
from  trawlers  shelled  and  riddled  while  they  swept 
for  mines;  from  seaplanes  that  winged  it  coastwise 
and  huge  dirigibles  steering  far  offshore;  from  the 
fleets  of  submarine  chasers  that  skimmed  out  from 
every  naval  base;  from  German  sailors  fished  out  of 
the  sea  when  their  U-boats  were  blown  to  bits. 

The  commodore  laid  down  his  dividers  and  rule 
after  drawing  several  lines  in  pencil.  They  enclosed 


250  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

a  small  area  on  the  chart,  with  the  compass  bearings 
carefully  indicated.  Absorbed  in  the  problem,  he 
moved  a  flag  an  inch  or  so  before  turning  to  say  to 
the  fascinated  Lowry : 

"That  U-boat  ought  to  be  about  there.  I  have 
traced  it  for  three  days,  and  warnings  have  been  sent 
to  your  Yankee  troop  convoys  and  our  own  vessels. 
Seven  destroyers  have  started  out  to  hunt  the  beggar 
down  and  I  have  a  notion  they  may  pot  him  before 
night." 

"It  is  a  matter  of  calculating  his  cruising  speed  and 
the  positions  in  which  he  has  been  sighted  or  re 
ported,"  said  Lowry. 

"Precisely  that!  It  has  taken  time  to  perfect  the 
system.  This  submarine  nuisance  caught  us  all  with 
our  socks  down.  One  did  n't  expect  such  dirty  war 
fare.  But  I  fancy  we  shall  be  twisting  the  tail  of  Fritz 
from  now  on.  Instead  of  sending  my  reports  to  your 
admiral,  it  is  much  better  to  work  together.  We  are 
all  one  navy,  for  the  present." 

Lowry  cordially  agreed  to  this,  and  his  trained 
mind  grasped  the  extraordinary  difficulties  which  the 
genius  of  this  vivacious  British  commodore  had  al 
ready  overcome.  With  an  uncanny  sixth  sense  he  was 
able  to  discard  a  mass  of  misleading  reports,  to  pounce 
upon  those  which  fitted  in  as  factors  of  a  particular 
problem  and  to  arrive  at  a  reliable  conclusion.  Across 
the  surface  of  his  charts  the  courses  of  the  prowling 
submarines  were  traced  in  lines  which  doubled  or 
curved  or  twisted  like  the  trail  of  a  worm. 

"Eleven  of  them  are  at  sea  to-day!"  he  exclaimed. 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  251 

"There  were  fourteen  yesterday  morning.  We  had  a 
lucky  inning.  One  hit  a  mine  in  Dover  Strait,  another 
was  scuppered  eighty  miles  sou'west  of  Ushant,  and 
your  bully  Queenstown  destroyers  accounted  for  the 
third." 

"I  hoped  to  get  a  whack  at  them  myself,"  Lowry 
replied,  his  face  clouding. 

"We  all  feel  that  way,  my  dear  chap.  But  perhaps 
you  and  I  can  give  them  a  proper  dusting  right  in  this 
old  shop.  Here  is  one  —  this  red  flag  marks  the  spot 
—  in  a  jolly  fix.  We  put  him  down  in  thirteen  fathoms 
last  night,  shortly  before  dusk,  and  bombed  him  prop 
erly.  A  flock  of  drifters  has  him  encircled.  They 
heard  him  hammering  away  like  mad  this  morning, 
trying  to  repair  his  engines  or  something  of  the  sort. 
He  will  drown  on  the  bottom.  Odd  that  you  can't 
feel  sorry  for  the  blighters,  but  it  is  like  exterminating 


vermin." 


To  all  intents  and  purposes,  Commander  Walter 
Lowry,  U.S.N.,  had  joined  the  British  Naval  Service. 
This  he  realized  as  he  came  to  adjust  himself,  day  by 
day,  to  the  demands  of  his  new  task.  From  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning  until  ten  at  night  he  was  in  the  dingy 
room  with  the  commodore  whose  spirits  never  flagged. 
Together  they  guessed  and  pondered  and  made  their 
moves  upon  the  difficult  chessboard  whose  stakes 
were  incalculable.  When  they  were  wrong  they  in 
vented  some  new  method  and  put  it  to  the  test.  Slowly 
but  steadily  the  toll  of  destroyed  U-boats  was  mount 
ing  and  the  tabulations  showed  that  Germany  was 
falling  behind  in  building  new  ones.  The  tide  had 


252  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

turned  in  favor  of  the  Allied  operations  and  the  peak 
had  been  passed. 

Lowry  found  no  time  to  look  up  old  friends  at  the 
American  Naval  Headquarters,  and  his  inclination 
was  to  avoid  them,  nor  did  he  visit  the  officers'  clubs 
and  the  hotels  where  they  dined.  He  believed  it  ad 
visable  to  say  as  little  as  possible  about  his  business 
or  to  make  public  his  connection  with  the  Admiralty. 
It  could  be  inferred  that  he  was  in  London  on  waiting 
orders.  He  made  an  exception,  however,  in  the  case 
of  an  ensign  who  happened  to  be  a  cousin,  and  who 
lived  in  his  own  home  town.  Lowry  felt  a  fatherly 
responsibility  for  the  welfare  of  this  youngster  who 
had  left  college  to  take  a  three  months'  course  at  An 
napolis  and  win  a  reserve  commission.  To  his  amazed 
delight  he  had  been  sent  abroad  to  join  the  vice- 
admiral's  staff. 

A  good-looking,  agreeable  boy,  Ensign  William 
Pratt  found  many  social  attractions  in  London,  and 
Commander  Lowry's  steadying  hand  was  required  to 
keep  him  from  going  a  bit  wild.  It  was  an  obvious 
duty  to  tame  his  exuberance  and  try  to  pound  into 
him  the  fact  that  war  was  a  business  and  not  a  pas 
time.  They  were  at  dinner  together  in  a  small,  old- 
fashioned  hotel  unfrequented  by  Americans  when 
the  older  man  inquired: 

"Have  you  cut  out  the  tea-fights  and  theater  par 
ties,  Billy?  And  what  about  cocktails  at  the  Carleton 
bar?  You  gave  me  your  word,  you  know." 

"It's  all  off,  Walter.  Absolutely  nothing  doing," 
was  the  prompt  assurance.  "I  have  been  as  dry  as  a 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  253 

Y.M.C.A.  hut  ever  since  you  read  me  the  riot  act. 
Besides,  I  am  on  the  night  trick  now  and  a  fellow  has 
to  have  his  wits  about  him  every  minute.  The  de 
coding  officer  is  giving  me  a  try-out,  and  I  certainly 
aim  to  make  good." 

"You  are  a  bright  kid,  which  is  why  they  shoved 
you  into  Communications,"  judicially  observed 
Lowry. 

"Awfully  interesting  work,"  said  the  ensign,  his 
manner  slightly  patronizing.  "Too  bad  you  can't  be 
doing  something  of  the  kind,  instead  of  cooling  your 
heels  on  waiting  orders.  I  handle  the  real  inside  stuff. 
We  cracked  the  latest  German  Admiralty  code  last 
week,  but  they  switched  on  us  a  couple  of  nights 
later.  I'll  bet  we  crack  it  again,  though." 

"I  hope  so,  Billy,"  was  the  bland  comment  of  the 
commander  who  had  already  received  this  same  in 
formation  from  expert  code-breakers  of  the  Admi 
ralty.  "Better  be  careful  about  spilling  conversation. 
They  are  putting  a  good  deal  of  trust  in  you.  The 
decoding-room  demands  a  tight  lip." 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me!"  cried  Ensign  Pratt. 
"That  was  how  I  happened  to  get  sent  across  —  an 
Intelligence  job  in  the  First  Naval  District  put  me 
in  right  with  my  boss.  And  if  a  fellow  knocks  around 
London  at  all  he  learns  to  be  mighty  careful.  I  know 
two  or  three  officers  in  our  own  Service  who  work 
under  cover  —  in  partnership  with  the  British  Secret 
Service  —  and  some  of  their  yarns  are  corking.  You 
hear  a  lot  of  startling  gossip  among  society  people, 
too.  I  have  met  a  bunch  of  charming  women  —  they 


254  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

make  a  fuss  over  a  chap  in  an  American  Navy  uni 
form.  We're  quite  the  fad  just  now." 

Lowry  smiled  and  listened.  It  amused  him  to  let 
the  youngster  rattle  on  in  his  eager,  ingenuous  manner. 

"I  have  n't  a  doubt  that  I  am  watched,"  continued 
Ensign  Pratt,  with  a  glance  over  his  shoulder.  The 
dining-room  was  almost  empty,  and  he  explained; 
"You  never  can  tell.  A  man  whose  work  is  as  impor 
tant  as  mine  is  liable  to  be  spotted  and  followed  up 
by  the  enemy's  system  of  spies.  Maybe  some  lovely 
girl  you  meet  at  tea  in  a  fashionable  house  is  one  of 
their  agents.  I've  been  getting  the  straight  dope  on 
this  *  Hidden  Hand'  and  it  is  enough  to  scare  you." 

"The  'Hidden  Hand'?"  queried  Lowry,  mildly  in 
credulous.  "More  or  less  tommy -rot,  is  n't  it,  Billy?" 

"Not  on  your  life!  Listen,  Walter,  there  are  power 
ful  influences  in  England  that  don't  want  to  see  Ger 
many  licked.  Get  me?  You  run  into  it  if  you  keep 
your  eye  peeled.  You  must  have  heard  some  of  the 
stories.  I  have  reason  to  believe  they  are  true." 

"War  breeds  impossible  rumors  and  scandals," 
objected  Lowry,  with  more  earnestness.  "The  at 
mosphere  is  abnormal.  People  become  unbalanced, 
neurotic,  without  realizing  it.  They  swallow  any  lie 
that  comes  along." 

"But  you  are  not  in  a  position  to  know,  Walter, 
old  man,"  said  the  ensign,  and  his  manner  was  almost 
pitying.  "A  major-general  of  the  British  Army  was 
shot  for  treason  two  days  ago.  And  Sir  Tracey  Dulles, 
the  big  banker,  is  locked  up  in  the  Tower  under  sen 
tence  of  death." 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  255 

"Fudge,  Billy!  You  are  too  easy.  And  Lord  Kitch 
ener  is  alive  as  a  prisoner  in  Germany,  and  a  Russian 
army  was  transported  through  England." 

"This  is  different  stuff,"  argued  the  ensign.  "I  am 
in  a  position  to  know,  I  tell  you.  Here  is  Lady  Violet 
Chamberlayne,  for  instance.  Her  brother  is  in  the 
Cabinet  and  her  father  is  Chairman  of  the  Board  of 
Shipping  Control.  Her  husband  had  settled  a  fortune 
on  her  before  she  divorced  him  and  they  say  it  is  tied 
up  in  German  manufacturing  interests.  That  may 
have  something  to  do  with  her  devotion  to  the  cause 
of  the  Kaiser." 

Commander  Walter  Lowry  sat  upright  in  his  chair 
and  his  eyes  opened  wide.  He  had  ceased  to  appear 
amused.  This  was  no  longer  artless  prattle,  to  pass 
in  at  one  ear  and  out  of  the  other.  By  habit  he  masked 
his  emotions,  however,  and  he  spoke  evenly. 

"You  have  met  this  Lady  Chamberlayne,  have 
you,  Billy?" 

"I  should  say  yes.  I  danced  with  her  and  took  her 
into  dinner  twice.  By  Jove,  she's  no  chicken,  but  I 
came  precious  close  to  falling  in  love  with  her.  She  is 
a  peach.  A  very  dangerous  woman,  take  it  from  me." 

"How  old  is  she?"  and  a  twinkle  relieved  Lowry's 
stern  expression. 

"By  Jove,  she  must  be  getting  on  toward  thirty," 
replied  Ensign  Pratt,  "but  she  is  tremendously  well 
preserved." 

"An  antique,  from  your  point  of  view,  eh,  Billy? 
And  so  Lady  Violet  Chamberlayne  is  an  agent  of  the 
•Hidden  Hand'?" 


256  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"I  hate  to  think  it,  but  I  get  my  information 
straight  from  the  inside.  She  is  as  clever  as  the  deuce, 
and  they  can't  get  the  goods  on  her,  or  she  has  pull 
enough  to  keep  her  off  the  rocks.  If  I  had  n't  been 
warned  she  might  have  been  twisting  me  around  her 
finger  by  now." 

"  I  can't  quite  understand  how  she  was  able  to  resist 
you,  William,"  gravely  observed  Commander  Lowry. 
"She  did  n't  propose  an  elopement?" 

"Now  you're  joshing  me,  Walter.  You  don't  mix 
up  with  people,  so  how  can  you  expect  to  get  wise  to 
what  is  going  on?" 

"Very  true,  my  son.  Being  alone  and  adrift  in 
London,  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  philosopher  and 
friend  like  you." 

"You  will  learn  a  few"  things,  anyhow,"  confidently 
replied  William.  "I  could  let  you  in  on  some  dope 
about  submarine  warfare  that  would  surprise  you  - 

"Sorry,  but  we'll  have  to  wait  until  next  time," 
interrupted  Lowry,  glancing  at  his  watch.  "I  have  an 
engagement." 

He  saw  the  buoyant  ensign  depart  in  a  taxi  for  the 
night  trick  at  American  Naval  Headquarters  and  then 
sauntered  into  Trafalgar  Square  and  crossed  to  the 
gloomy  courtyard  of  the  Admiralty.  It  was  absurd 
to  regard  the  ensign's  gossip  too  seriously,  but  the 
boy  was  no  fool,  and  he  must  have  demonstrated  his 
fitness  for  confidential  and  exacting  employment  or 
he  would  not  be  assigned  to  the  Department  of  Com 
munications.  And  apparently  he  knew  important  peo 
ple  in  London.  The  indictment  of  Lady  Violet  wag 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  257 

shocking  and  incredible,  and  yet  Lowry  could  not 
help  recalling  his  uncomfortable  sensations  on  ship 
board,  the  suspicions  which  had  seemed  so  intangible, 
so  unreasonable.  It  had  been  no  more  than  a  series 
of  intuitions  which  had  been  brushed  from  his  mind 
when  the  steamer  reached  Liverpool. 

He  was  compelled  to  put  aside  these  perturbing 
reflections,  for  the  commodore  awaited  him  impa 
tiently  and  was  in  one  of  his  fidgety  moods.  A  consul 
tation  was  in  progress,  and  Lowry  stood  aside  until 
two  British  officers  finished  what  they  had  to  say  and 
left  the  room.  The  commodore  locked  the  door  be 
hind  them  and  explained : 

"The  chief -of-staff  from  the  Dunkirk  base  and  the 
commander  of  the  Dover  drifter  patrol.  They  agree 
with  our  conclusions.  You  and  I  are  right  as  usual, 
Lowry.  And  that  diary  yonder  proves  it  to  the  hilt." 

He  waved  a  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  grate  fire 
where  a  sea-stained,  sodden  little  book  was  propped 
up  to  dry  in  a  toasting-rack.  It  had  been  recovered 
from  the  body  of  a  German  sailor  washed  ashore  near 
Penzance. 

"I  finished  translating  a  page  or  two,"  resumed 
the  commodore.  "The  scoundrel  jotted  down  the  date 
of  departure  from  Zeebrugge,  and  his  submarine  was 
destroyed  on  the  morning  following.  Look  at  the  po 
sition  on  the  chart,  if  you  please.  This  boat  could  not 
have  made  the  long  run  around  the  north  of  Scotland 
to  reach  the  Atlantic.  Therefore  he  went  down  the 
Channel,  through  our  barrage.  There  have  been  other 
instances  lately." 


258  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Lowry  scanned  the  chart  of  Dover  Strait  and  the 
Belgium  coast  as  he  commented : 

"He  took  the  short  cut  and  saved  himself  a  thun 
dering  lot  of  distance.  That  increases  his  cruising  effi 
ciency  by  a  good  many  per  cent,  sir.  As  long  as  you 
compel  them  to  go  far  north  to  get  to  sea  — 3 

"  The  blighter  poked  his  way  through  a  gap  in  our 
nets  and  dodged  our  patrols!"  stormed  the  commo 
dore.  "  They  have  been  making  a  habit  of  it  lately.  I 
realize  that  it  is  the  devil's  own  job  to  keep  those 
miles  and  miles  of  nets  in  position  during  the  winter 
gales,  with  a  four  or  five  knot  tide  racing  through 
Dover  Strait.  But  it  must  be  stopped.  I  am  properly 
fed  up  with  it.  And  the  First  Sea  Lord  is  seriously 
annoyed.  He  dropped  in  to  see  me  while  you  were  out, 
and  scowled  at  my  charts." 

"But  you  are  not  responsible  for  the  Dover  bar 
rage,  sir,"  mildly  suggested  Lowry.  "They  can't  put 
it  up  to  you." 

"Right-o;  but  they  are  always  asking  one  to  do 
impossible  things.  This  does  not  directly  concern  the 
American  force,  for  you  have  no  ships  in  the  Strait, 
but  the  protection  of  shipping  is  as  vital  to  you  as  it 
is  to  us,  and  so  I  shall  expect  you  to  set  your  wits  at 
work  and  help  me  euchre  those  artful  swine  at  Ostend 
and  Zeebrugge." 

Until  midnight  the  commodore  drew  diagrams  and 
sketches  and  tossed  them  in  the  waste-basket.  The 
problem  was  to  establish  and  maintain  an  effective 
barrier  across  the  stormy  strait  between  England  and 
France.  For  one  thing,  he  announced  to  Lowry,  a 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  259 

more  elaborate  system  of  nets  was  required,  not 
merely  defensive,  but  equipped  with  means  of  de 
struction.  Instead  of  laying  mines  separately  they 
should  be  a  part  of  the  net  barrier,  so  that  a  sub 
marine  entangling  itself  should  automatically  blow 
itself  to  blazes.  This  would  teach  them  to  be  wary 
of  the  route  down  Channel. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  three  days  and  nights  of 
racking,  concentrated  labor  added  to  the  regular  rou 
tine.  Admirals  and  other  commodores  joined  the  con 
ferences  and  the  suggestions  piled  up,  but  the  guiding 
genius  was  the  marvelous  little  man  who  rumpled  his 
gray  hair  and  swore  in  a  genial  manner  and  littered 
the  floor  with  his  plans  and  memoranda.  At  length, 
the  undertaking  was  welded  into  final  shape.  It  ap 
peared  to  be  an  impassable,  impenetrable  combina 
tion  of  nets,  mines,  surface,  and  air  patrols.  His  eye 
lids  red  for  lack  of  sleep,  the  commodore  slapped 
Lowry 's  shoulder  and  cried : 

"You  Yanks  are  planning  to  lay  a  barrier  of  mines 
across  the  upper  end  of  the  North  Sea,  from  the  Ork 
neys  to  the  Norway  coast.  Now  if  this  scheme  of  ours 
is  any  use  and  it  closes  the  Channel  exit,  we've  got 
'em  fenced  in  both  ways." 

Once  more  he  verified  the  set  of  diagrams,  the  com 
pass  bearings,  the  instructions  appended,  and  then 
sent  them  to  the  drafting-room  to  be  copied  in  blue 
print.  Lowry  congratulated  him.  It  was  a  brilliant 
achievement  and  of  vital  importance.  When  the  blue 
prints  were  returned,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  follow 
ing  day,  the  commodore  initialed  them  and  slipped 


260  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

one  complete  set  into  a  large  Admiralty  envelope 
which  he  sealed  with  wax. 

"For  your  vice-admiral,  with  my  compliments," 
he  told  Lowry.  "He  will  be  interested,  I'm  sure.  It 
seems  a  bit  better  to  entrust  them  to  you  than  to  send 
them  along  by  one  of  our  messengers." 

"I  will  be  responsible  for  the  blue-prints,  sir," 
Lowry  assured  him,  carefully  placing  the  envelope 
in  his  leather  dispatch  case.  "I  have  another  errand 
at  American  Headquarters  and  if  you  don't  mind  I  '11 
go  at  once." 

"Stay  as  long  as  you  like,  my  boy.  You  deserve  a 
breath  of  air.  This  shop  of  mine  is  a  mad-house." 

After  a  week  of  fog  and  rain  and  disconsolate  gloom, 
the  streets  of  London  were  enjoying  a  brief  benedic 
tion  of  sunshine.  There  was  something  like  a  breath  of 
spring  in  the  air.  Lowry  was  in  a  sight-seeing  mood  as 
he  gazed  at  the  crowds  from  the  open  window  of  a 
taxi.  Presently  he  heard  the  distant  rattle  and  boom 
of  a  drum  corps  and  the  skirl  of  the  bagpipes.  The 
flow  of  traffic  slackened  and  finally  halted  to  keep  the 
cross-street  clear  for  the  passage  of  marching  troops. 
Lowry's  taxi  waited  in  the  blockade  of  trucks,  motor 
cars,  and  omnibuses,  nor  did  he  mind  the  slight  delay. 
It  always  thrilled  him  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  in 
domitable  British  Army. 

He  leaned  out  of  the  window  as  the  shrill  war  song 
of  the  pipes  drew  near.  Then  a  company  of  kilted  in 
fantrymen  swung  past  with  that  jaunty,  swaggering 
stride  that  is  all  their  own.  They  were  Seaforth  High 
landers  —  hard,  lean  men,  many  of  them  with  wound 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  261 

stripes  on  their  sleeves.  The  metal  helmets  and  the 
heavy  burden  of  equipment  indicated  that  they  were 
bound  for  the  front.  There  was  no  cheering  from  the 
pavements.  Women  wiped  their  eyes  or  waved  their 
hands.  Such  incidents  had  become  part  of  a  familiar 
routine.  The  rear  ranks  passed  from  view,  the  pipes 
flung  back  a  lilting  farewell,  and  two  tall  policemen 
permitted  the  tide  of  vehicles  to  resume  its  motion. 

Commander  Lowry  settled  back  in  the  taxi,  holding 
the  leather  dispatch  case  on  his  lap,  while  the  driver 
deftly  tacked  or  shot  ahead  a  few  feet.  Progress  was 
checked  at  the  next  crossing,  however,  and  Lowry 
looked  out  to  discover  the  cause  of  this  new  entangle 
ment.  The  taxi  was  quitetlose  to  the  curb  where  groups 
of  people  awaited  a  chance  to  reach  the  other  side. 
Among  them  was  a  woman,  slender  and  elegant,  who 
bestowed  upon  the  American  naval  officer  a  bright 
smile  of  recognition.  She  stood  no  more  than  a  yard 
away  from  him,  and  Lowry  could  do  nothing  else  than 
respond  to  the  cordial  greeting  of  Lady  Violet  Cham- 
berlayne.  Courtesy  was  not  the  only  motive,  however, 
for  this  glimpse  of  his  fair  shipmate  revived  the  spell 
of  the  charm  which  had  so  greatly  attracted  him. 

Flinging  open  the  door  of  the  taxi,  the  precious 
dispatch  case  tucked  under  his  arm,  he  stepped  to  the 
curb  and  exclaimed  as  their  hands  met: 

"My  good  fortune!  I'm  so  glad  you  have  n't  for 
gotten  me.  May  I  come  to  your  rescue?  Whither 
bound?" 

"To  a  committee  meeting,  of  course,'"  answered 
Lady  Violet.  "And  late  as  usual.  You  have  forgotten 


262  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

me  entirely,  Commander  Lowry.  I  have  felt  upset 
about  it.  Is  this  your  first  leave  from  Queenstown  and 
your  destroyer?  If  so,  I  may  forgive  your  neglect/' 

"I  am  not  in  a  destroyer,  just  at  present,"  awk 
wardly  ventured  Lowry.  "Really,  you  don't  know 
how  glad  I  am  for  this  sight  of  you." 

"Then  why  not  drop  in  for  tea  at  five  o'clock?  I 
must  not  detain  you  here.  The  bobby  is  signaling 
your  driver  to  come  along." 

"Why  not  let  me  take  you  to  the  committee  meet 
ing,  Lady  Chamberlayne?"  suggested  Lowry.  "I  am 
in  no  hurry." 

"How  sweet  of  you!  I  am  dreadfully  rushed  to-day 
and  it  is  impossible  to  find  a  taxi.  I  gave  up  trying. 
The  address  is  not  far  from  Grosvenor  Gardens,  so  it 
will  be  almost  on  your  route  if  you  happen  to  be  going 
to  your  Naval  Headquarters." 

Lowry  regretted  that  the  distance  was  not  farther. 
To  drive  with  Lady  Violet  in  the  pleasant  intimacy  of 
a  taxi  made  London  seem  worth  while.  The  driver  was 
a  wise  old  bird  and  his  rattle-trap  fairly  crawled 
through  the  remainder  of  the  journey.  The  gent  inside 
would  appreciate  a  bit  of  tact  and  reward  him  accord 
ingly.  For  Lowry  the  situation  was  rather  difficult  to 
manage  with  ease,  as  he  soon  began  to  realize.  His 
impulsive  invitation  had  overlooked  the  fact  that  he 
was  bound  to  offer  some  explanation  of  his  presence 
in  London  and  he  felt  unwilling  to  disclose  the  truth. 
Time  had  almost  healed  his  wounded  self-esteem  as 
the  victim  of  a  sorry  anticlimax,  and  it  made  no 
great  difference  whether  or  not  he  was  a  destroyer 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  263 

hero  in  her  sight,  but  he  felt  a  sense  of  reticence,  of 
constraint. 

That  he  was  in  danger  of  falling  in  love  with  Lady 
Violet  if  he  should  let  himself  go  was  undeniable.  And 
in  his  heart  he  believed  her  innocent  of  wrong.  He  had 
discarded  the  sensational  revelations  of  Ensign  Wil 
liam  Pratt  as  so  much  rubbish.  Apparently  she  no 
ticed  nothing  amiss  with  him  as  she  chatted  in  that 
candid,  friendly  manner  which  had  so  strongly  ap 
pealed  to  him. 

"You  thought  me  inquisitive  and  meddlesome  — 
now  did  n't  you?  —  so  I  shall  not  ask  you  one  solitary 
question  about  yourself  or  your  Yankee  Navy,"  she 
announced. 

"Was  I  as  rough  as  all  that?"  he  laughed.  "Con 
duct  unbecoming  an  officer  and  gentleman?  Perhaps 
you  ought  to  recommend  a  court-martial.  I  have  been 
sorry  for  it,  if  that  gives  you  any  satisfaction.  My 
story  is  soon  told.  Desk  duty  again  —  no  time  to  play 
—  and  no  hope  of  being  a  fighting  sailor." 

"You  had  a  silly  notion  that  I  might  think  less  of 
you  on  that  account!"  exclaimed  Lady  Violet.  "Men 
are  such  vain,  simple  creatures." 

"Abuse  me  some  more.  I  like  it,"  urged  Lowry. 

"That  impressive  dispatch  case  which  you  clasp  so 
tightly  in  both  hands,  for  instance,"  she  said,  teas- 
ingly.  "All  the  men  I  know  trot  about  with  those 
leather  portfolios.  It  gives  them  an  air  of  confidential 
importance.  And  there  is  nothing  in  them  half  the 
time,  I  am  sure." 

"If  the  American  Navy  permits  no  pockets  in  an 


264  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

officer's  blouse,  where  can  he  stow  his  cigarettes,  let 
ters,  and  a  spare  handkerchief?"  Lowry  demanded. 
"A  dispatch  case  is  the  handy  trick." 

"My  father  puts  sandwiches  in  his,  and  he  is  al 
ways  losing  it  about  the  house,  and  then  he  kicks  up 
a  frightful  rumpus.  You  might  think  he  carried  the 
British  Government  about  with  him." 

From  this  lighter  vein  the  talk  shifted  to  the  war, 
and  Lady  Violet  displayed  a  knowledge  of  England's 
problems  such  as  could  have  been  gained  only  through 
association  with  the  men  who  guided  the  destinies 
of  the  nation  through  these  dark  and  critical  hours. 
Lowry  listened  with  an  interest  keen  and  respectful. 
It  was  brought  home  to  him  more  vividly  than  ever 
before  that  in  the  minds  of  the  statesmen  of  Eng 
land  and  France  one  question  dwelt  and  burned 
continually  —  how  long  must  they  hang  on  before 
America  could  be  ready  to  put  her  back  into  the 
war? 

"We  don't  whimper,  and  we  shall  never  quit,"  said 
Lady  Violet  as  the  taxi  halted  at  her  destination,  "but 
we  can't  wait  much  longer.  You  will  come  for  tea, 
surely?  I  shall  expect  you." 

Lowry  needed  no  persuasion.  In  a  happier  mood  he 
drove  to  the  mansion  in  Grosvenor  Gardens  and  re 
quested  an  interview  with  the  vice-admiral.  It  was 
granted  at  once.  Commander  Lowry  found  the  chief 
of  the  American  naval  forces  at  leisure  and  alone.  The 
errand  was  briefly  explained,  to  deliver  personally,  as 
suggested  by  Commodore  Hall  of  the  Admiralty,  a 
set  of  blue-prints  showing  plans  in  detail  for  a  new 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  265 

and  more  efficient  anti-submarine  barrier  system  in 
the  Strait  of  Dover. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  scheme  yourself?" 
queried  the  vice-admiral  as  Lowry  pulled  a  key-ring 
from  his  pocket  and  was  about  to  unlock  the  dispatch 
case. 

"It  is  excellent,  I  think,  sir.  An  opening  will  have 
to  be  left  in  the  war  channel,  of  course,  for  merchant 
vessels  bound  north  and  south,  but  this  will  be 
guarded  very  much  better  than  at  present  and  provi 
sion  is  made  for  shifting  it  elsewhere  whenever  the 
U-boats  discover  it.  The  plans  show  the  barrage  as  it 
is  now,  as  well  as  the  improvements  contemplated,  so 
you  can  compare  them  for  yourself." 

"All  right,  Lowry.  Spread  the  blue-prints  on  the 
desk  and  pin  the  corners  down,  and  we  will  look  over 
them  together.  You  can  explain  the  process  by  which 
the  thing  was  worked  out.  That  is  the  advantage  of 
having  you  in  the  Admiralty." 

Lowry  had  inserted  the  key  in  the  small  brass  lock. 
He  lifted  the  leather  flap  and  felt  for  the  large,  sealed 
envelope  without  looking  inside.  His  fingers  groped 
in  vain.  They  trembled  as  he  withdrew  them.  The 
flat  case  was  empty.  The  blue-prints  had  vanished, 
and  with  them  the  daily  submarine  map  and  the  type 
written  reports  which  he  had  folded  with  it.  His  face 
expressed  foolish  bewilderment.  Again  he  fumbled 
and  searched,  like  a  man  in  a  trance,  turning  the  case 
upside  down  and  shaking  it.  His  forehead  was  damp 
with  cold  sweat.  His  misery  was  pitiful  to  behold. 

The  vice-admiral  watched  the  tragic  episode  in 


266  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

silence.  His  clean-cut  visage  was  inscrutable.  Tossing 
a  cigarette  aside,  he  lighted  another  and  stood  with 
hands  clasped  behind  him.  A  nautical  clock  on  the 
mantel  struck  eight  bells.  The  silvery  peal  rang 
through  the  room  with  startling  loudness.  The  vice- 
admiral  moved  quietly  to  the  door  and  shot  the  bolt. 
Lowry  leaned  against  the  desk,  as  though  all  his  vigor 
had  ebbed,  and  his  incredulous  vision  was  still  held 
by  the  empty  dispatch  case.  It  appeared  to  fascinate 
him,  to  bind  him  with  a  spell  of  dumbness.  At  length 
he  coughed  and  found  speech,  but  his  voice  was  not 
much  stronger  than  a  whisper. 

"The  blue-prints  are  not  here,  sir.  I  have  lost 
them." 

"So  I  perceive,"  said  the  vice-admiral,  and  the 
accents  cut  like  a  fine  steel  blade.  "The  fact  speaks 
for  itself.  Anything  more  to  say?" 

"What  is  there  to  say?"  cried  Lowry,  with  a  rush 
of  pent-up  emotion.  "I  locked  them  in  the  case.  It 
was  never  out  of  my  sight.  Commodore  Hart  will  tell 
you  that  he  sealed  the  envelope  and  saw  me  turn  the 
key  on  it.  You  saw  me  open  the  case.  It's  a  bad  dream 
—  nothing  else." 

"The  devil  of  a  bad  one,"  deliberately  agreed  the 
vice-admiral.  "I  can't  imagine  one  very  much  worse, 
can  you?  Sit  down.  Take  that  big  chair.  You  look 
sick.  Perhaps  I  can  get  something  out  of  you  when 
your  brain  stops  whirling.  Meanwhile  I  shall  rush  a 
message  to  Commodore  Hart  over  the  private  wire. 
He  should  be  notified." 

He  sat  at  the  telephone  while  Lowry  listened.  It 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  267 

was  like  hearing  the  sentence  of  a  judge  who  con 
demned  him  beyond  hope  of  pardon.  The  vice- 
admiral  ceased  talking,  and  from  the  receiver  there 
came,  faint  and  tinny  like  a  distant  phonograph,  the 
crackling  profanity  of  Commodore  Sir  Douglas  Hart. 

"He  is  firing  salvos,  Lowry,"  the  vice-admiral  ob 
served  with  a  flicker  of  a  smile.  "I  advise  you  to  steer 
wide  of  him  until  to-morrow." 

"I  am  prepared  to  take  my  medicine,  sir.  The  mat 
ter  is  in  your  hands.  The  Admiralty  will  have  no 
further  use  for  me." 

"Presumably  not.  Now,  Lowry,  use  your  wits  and 
overhaul  the  thing,  a  link  at  a  time.  You  are  no  fool 
or  you  would  not  have  been  selected  for  this  berth. 
There  must  be  an  answer  to  it.  What  happened,  from 
the  moment  you  left  the  commodore's  room  until  you 
reported  to  me?" 

"I  stood  at  the  Whitehall  entrance  of  the  Ad 
miralty  for  perhaps  five  minutes  until  a  porter  could 
find  a  taxi.  There  was  a  blockade  at  a  crossing,  to  let 
some  troops  go  by  —  I  did  n't  notice  the  name  of  the 
street  —  but  the  delay  was  very  brief.  I  was  just 
getting  clear  of  this  jam  when  the  taxi  stopped  again. 
The  fairway  was  crowded  and  I  was  right  alongside  a 
woman  with  whom  I  had  become  acquainted  on  board 
ship.  I  spoke  to  her  from  the  window  of  the  taxi,  and 
she  mentioned  the  fact  that  she  was  stranded  on  foot 
and  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  a  war  committee  meeting. 
It  was  almost  directly  on  my  course,  and  as  a  mere 
matter  of  courtesy  I  offered  to  drop  her  there." 

The  vice-admiral  was  stroking  his  close-cropped 


268  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

gray  beard  and  his  glance  was  both  stern  and  quiz 
zical  as  he  commented: 

"The  woman  in  the  case?  And  who  might  she  be? 
What  do  you  know  about  her?'* 

"It  was  Lady  Violet  Chamberlayne,"  answered 
Lowry,  flushing  hotly  and  conscious  that  he  was 
visibly  disturbed. 

"Lady  Violet  Chamberlayne?"  echoed  the  vice- 
admiral.  He  betrayed  surprise.  "You  invited  her  to 
ride  in  your  taxi,  when  you  were  coming  from  the 
Admiralty  on  confidential  business  of  unusual  im 
portance?" 

"I  saw  no  harm  in  it,  sir.  It  implied  no  neglect  or 
carelessness  on  my  part.  A  woman  of  her  position  has 
a  right  to  expect  such  a  small  courtesy.  It  was  done 
as  a  matter  of  course.  Even  if  I  had  paid  any  atten 
tion  to  the  senseless  gossip  of  London  in  war-time, 
there  was  not  the  slightest  risk  of  my  disclosing  in 
formation.  I  know  how  to  keep  my  mouth  shut,  sir, 
even  among  friends." 

"I  grant  you  that,  Lowry,"  was  the  prompt  reply; 
"but  let  us  return  to  that  dispatch  case  of  yours." 

"It  never  left  my  hands  while  Lady  Chamberlayne 
was  in  the  taxi,  sir.  I  can  swear  to  that.  When  I  met 
her  and  stepped  out  to  help  her  inside,  the  case  was 
under  my  arm.  After  that  I  held  it  upon  my  knee. 
This  was  not  a  sentimental  excursion,  sir.  There  was 
no  reason  for  losing  my  head.  I  did  not  for  a  moment 
forget  the  dispatch  case." 

"And  it  never  left  your  hands,  Lowry,  while  Lady 
Chamberlayne  was  with  you?" 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  269 

"That  is  absolutely  indisputable,  sir." 
"Um-m.  And  this  is  the  same  leather  portfolio  in 
which  you  placed  the  Admiralty  blue-prints?  Are  you 
certain  of  that?" 

Lowry  subjected  it  to  a  painstaking  scrutiny  before 
he  answered:  "I  am  certain.  Here  is  my  name  and 
address  written  on  the  cloth  lining.  'Commander 
Walter  S.  Lowry,  American  Naval  Headquarters,  Lon 
don.9  I  used  a  fountain  pen  and  it  spluttered.  You 
can  see  the  blots.  And  I  had  previously  scratched  my 
initials  on  the  brass  plate  of  the  lock.  That  scar  across 
the  leather  back  of  the  case  was  made  by  a  thumb 
tack  on  one  of  the  chart  tables  in  the  commodore's 


room." 


"A  random  guess  of  mine  which  seems  to  lead  us 
nowhere,"  blankly  admitted  the  vice-admiral.  "I  be 
lieve  that  you  are  telling  me  the  truth,  and  the  whole 
truth.  There  must  have  been  black  magic  somewhere. 
But  you  are  a  hard-headed,  experienced  officer  —  no 
novice  at  confidential  duties.  There  is  a  flaw  in  your 
reckoning  —  there  must  be  —  and  the  problem  is  to 
puzzle  it  out." 

"May  I  have  your  permission  to  aid  the  investiga 
tion,  sir,  or  am  I  suspended  from  duty?"  sadly  in 
quired  the  commander. 

"You  are  suspended,  awaiting  results,"  said  the 
vice-admiral;  "but  I  advise  you  to  use  every  possible 
effort  to  find  the  missing  factor  of  this  infernal  equa 
tion.  I  shall  expect  a  daily  report  from  you.  That  will 
be  all  for  the  present,  Lowry.  I  shall  have  to  prepare 
a  formal  apology  to  the  Admiralty.  A  pleasant  task!" 


270  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

The  disgraced  commander  saluted  and  withdrew 
from  the  room,  and  as  he  passed  out  of  the  building 
his  friends  of  the  staff  remarked  among  themselves 
that  the  weather  must  have  been  squally.  Lowry  had 
failed  to  return  their  careless  greetings,  even  to  look 
at  them,  as  he  strode  through  the  halls  with  head 
down.  On  the  pavement  he  stood  irresolute  and 
glanced  at  his  watch.  He  recalled  his  engagement  for 
tea  with  Lady  Violet.  The  first  impulse  was  to  con 
front  her  and  to  explain  the  tragic  disaster  which  had 
overtaken  him.  Innocently  or  otherwise,  she  was  im 
plicated.  The  very  fact  that  she  had  been  with  him 
in  the  taxi  made  it  seem  hopeless  to  extricate  himself 
from  the  web  of  circumstances  which  conspired  to 
wreck  his  reputation.  Primitive  emotions  swayed  him. 
If  persuasion  failed,  he  would  threaten  her.  For  the 
life  of  him  he  could  discover  no  possible  grounds  for 
suspecting  her,  and  yet  in  what  other  direction  was  he 
to  grope  for  a  clue? 

Cooler  reflection  inclined  him  to  delay  an  interview 
with  her.  Already,  he  had  no  doubt,  the  hidden  ma 
chinery  of  the  Admiralty  had  been  set  in  motion  to 
watch  his  movements  night  and  day,  while  it  was  al 
most  as  certain  that  the  organization  of  the  American 
Naval  Intelligence  would  lose  not  a  moment  in  shad 
owing  him.  War  was  war,  and  the  disappearance  of 
the  set  of  blue-prints  was  no  ordinary  mishap.  It  con 
cerned  the  safety  of  the  road  to  France  for  the  Brit 
ish  Army,  its  munitions  and  supplies,  of  the  troop 
transports  of  America,  of  the  shipping  that  must  keep 
England  fed. 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  271 

To  go  straight  to  the  house  of  Lady  Violet  Cham- 
berlayne,  to  have  the  visit  noted  and  reported  by  the 
agents  detailed  to  keep  him  under  surveillance,  would 
be  a  stupid  action  calculated  to  make  the  situation 
even  worse  than  it  was.  He  required  a  respite,  time 
to  think  in  quietude,  to  test  one  theory  after  another 
with  the  same  patience  displayed  over  a  submarine 
plotting-chart  in  the  commodore's  room.  It  occurred 
to  him,  in  fact,  to  lay  out  on  paper  his  route  between 
the  Admiralty  and  Grosvenor  Gardens  and  so  vis 
ualize  that  inexplicable  adventure.  With  this  in  mind 
he  climbed  a  'bus  and  went  to  his  hotel  in  Little 
Suffolk  Street. 

Dinner  held  no  interest  for  him,  but  he  ordered  a 
tray  brought  up  to  his  room  and  while  he  ate,  or 
drank  black  coffee,  his  pencil  was  spoiling  sheet  after 
sheet  of  paper.  Somewhere  there  was  a  flaw  in  his 
recollection  of  what  had  happened  and  he  proposed 
to  find  it.  A  man  fagged  by  long  hours  of  hard  and 
anxious  work  might  unwittingly  suffer  a  brief  cata 
lepsy  or  sudden  suspension  of  consciousness.  Lowry 
fancied  he  had  read  something  of  the  sort,  but  the 
theory  seemed  absurd  in  this  instance,  for  he  had  felt 
uncommonly  fit  and  there  were  no  blank  spaces  to  fill 
in.  The  route  had  become  familiar  to  him  and  he  was 
able  to  check  it  up  for  this  particular  day,  one  street 
or  conspicuous  building  after  another.  Because  of  the 
sunshine  and  the  holiday  spirit  of  the  crowds  he  had 
been  more  observant  than  usual. 

Witchcraft  was  an  obsolete  doctrine.  It  failed  to 
satisfy  the  logic  of  a  naval  officer  highly  trained  in 


272  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

technical  science.  He  clung  to  the  conviction  that 
he  was  overlooking  some  detail,  a  minute  and  obvi 
ous  factor  in  the  sequence  of  events.  The  key  to  the 
riddle  must  be  inside  the  circle  of  his  own  compre 
hension.  Late  in  the  evening  he  was  interrupted  by 
the  breezy  entrance  of  his  boyish  cousin,  Ensign 
William  Pratt,  who  flung  his  cape  and  cap  on  the 
bed,  dropped  into  a  chair  with  the  sigh  of  a  weary 
man  and  exclaimed: 

"My  night  off,  old  top!  I  took  a  chance  on  finding 
you  up  and  about.  There  was  a  party  at  Murray's  — 
nothing  rough  and  I  score  a  hundred  per  cent  for  con 
duct  in  any  system  of  rating  —  but  that  is  some  little 
supper  club.  I  was  in  tow  of  a  bunch  of  English  offi 
cers  from  the  North  Sea  destroyer  patrol." 

"Did  they  say  anything  about  the  convoy  that 
was  wiped  out  by  a  raid  of  German  cruisers,  Billy? 
The  Admiralty  censor  is  still  holding  it  back." 

"Two  of  these  chaps  were  survivors,  Walter.  It  was 
a  terrible  mess.  Six  merchant  steamers  and  three  de 
stroyers  went  to  the  bottom,  shot  to  pieces  in  no  time. 
They  had  n't  a  show.  Fritz  smothered  'em  with  his 
big,  fast  ships  and  then  sneaked  back  to  Heligoland 
for  all  he  was  worth." 

"That  is  his  game,"  said  Lowry,  anxious  to  avoid 
personal  talk,  but  the  quick-witted  ensign  was  not 
so  easily  diverted. 

"You  look  mighty  seedy,"  said  he.  "All  frazzled 
out !  This  loafing  in  London  on  waiting  orders  does  n't 
seem  to  agree  with  you.  And  the  table  all  mussed  up 
with  papers  and  diagrams  and  things !  Far  be  it  from 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  273 

me  to  be  disrespectful,  Commander  Lowry,  but  I 
suspect  you  are  concealing  something  from  me." 

"I  am  awaiting  orders,  at  present,  Billy,"  was  the 
truthful  reply. 

"Then  you  ought  to  see  a  doctor.  You're  a  sick 
man,"  announced  the  ensign,  with  the  frankness  of 
his  years.  "You  worry  too  much.  I  know  how  it  is. 
I'm  not  sleeping  well  myself.  This  war  gets  on  my 
nerves." 

"You  don't  know  what  worry  is,"  scoffed  Lowry. 
"Still  loaded  with  dark  secrets  and  inside  stuff,  are 
you?" 

"Oh,  a  few.  I  have  a  knack  of  getting  on  with  peo 
ple.  One  of  my  new  pals  is  a  major  in  the  Special 
Police  Department  —  Defense  of  the  Realm  and  so 
on,  very  much  under  cover.  He  drifted  into  Murray's 
to-night,  looking  for  some  one.  I  have  been  able  to 
give  him  a  tip  or  two.  Now  and  then  some  queer  bird 
picks  me  for  an  easy  mark  and  I  string  'em  along." 

"You  are  a  misleading  young  person,  William," 
observed  Lowry.  "Anything  new  and  interesting?" 

Ensign  Pratt  lowered  his  voice  as  he  answered: 
"Trouble  broke  loose  to-night,  but  I  got  only  a  hint 
of  it.  Some  big  information  has  leaked  and  there  is  the 
deuce  to  pay.  The  major  dropped  a  word,  and  I  picked 
up  another  bit  of  it  at  dinner,  but  nothing  that  I  could 
piece  together.  It  is  really  no  more  than  a  hunch  of 


mine." 


"What  does  that  mean?"  queried  Lowry,  tense 

and  watchful.  "Your  hunches  are  clever,  at  times." 

"Well,  do  you  remember  what  I  told  you  about 


274  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Lady  Violet  Chamberlayne  ?  You  laughed  at  me  and 
said  it  was  all  piffle.  Listen  to  this.  Colonel  Chambers 
Llewellyn  went  to  her  house  this  evening  and  stayed 
there  two  hours.  You  know  who  he  is  —  chief  of  the 
whole  British  organization  for  rooting  out  enemy 
activities.  He  seldom  shows  his  hand  or  takes  an 
active  part  unless  something  sensational  is  in  the 
wind.  Few  of  his  agents  even  know  him  by  sight." 

"You  assume  that  he  has  placed  Lady  Chamber 
layne  under  arrest  or  something  of  the  sort?"  said 
Lowry. 

"  Gave  her  the  third  degree  and  went  through  her 
papers,  more  likely,"  answered  the  ensign.  "She 
played  her  hand  too  strong.  An  explosion  in  exclu 
sive  circles  is  just  about  due."  Young  William  Pratt 
yawned  and  added,  with  less  assurance;  "If  you  can 
spare  fifty  dollars  until  my  next  pay  check,  Walter, 
it  will  be  a  tremendous  favor.  Buying  new  uniforms 
and  the  high  cost  of  living  — " 

"So  that  is  why  you  honored  me  with  this  call,  is 
it?"  smiled  Lowry.  "I  am  glad  to  finance  such  a 
bright  boy,  but  be  careful  to  proceed  at  standard 
speed,  Billy.  And  look  out  for  shoals." 

The  ensign  pocketed  the  money,  accepted  the  ad 
vice  with  an  air  of  demure  respect,  and  took  a  prompt 
departure.  Lowry  sat  and  smoked  and  brooded.  His 
perplexities  had  banished  sleep.  They  were  more 
topsy-turvy  than  ever.  Heavy-eyed,  he  returned  to 
his  methodical,  futile  calculations  and  surmises,  de 
termined  to  run  down  that  missing  strand  of  the 
twisted  skein.  Dawn  was  filtering  through  the  cur- 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  275 

tained  windows  when  he  jumped  to  his  feet  with  an 
air  of  chagrin  and  said  aloud: 

"There,  by  Jove!  I  know  how  the  trick  was  done! 
Block-head!  I  ought  to  have  fathomed  it  hours  ago. 
But  I  insisted  on  starting  off  on  the  wrong  tack  every 
time,  and  then,  of  course,  my  conclusions  were  worth 
less.  It  does  n't  help  me  out  of  the  hole  —  I  am 
smashed  just  the  same  —  but  there  is  a  gleam  of  sat 
isfaction  in  knowing  that  I  am  not  a  hopeless  idiot. 
And  perhaps  I  can  be  of  some  service  to  the  Admi 
ralty  investigation,  if  it  is  n't  too  late." 

With  this  Commander  Lowry  lay  down  on  the  bed 
and  slept  soundly  for  three  hours.  Then  he  dragged 
himself  into  a  cold  bath,  dressed  with  his  customary 
care,  and  fortified  himself  with  a  hearty  breakfast. 
His  emotions  were  those  of  a  man  about  to  face  a 
firing  squad  as  he  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  Ad 
miralty,  but  his  demeanor  was  unshaken.  Without 
faltering  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  commodore's 
room  and  the  familiar,  chirping  voice  bade  him  enter. 
Lowry  perceived  that  the  vivacious  little  man  had 
also  passed  through  a  hard  night.  His  gray  thatch  was 
even  more  tousled  than  ordinary,  his  chin  was  un 
shaven,  and  he  was  slumped  in  a  chair,  instead  of 
bustling  about  his  chart  tables.  He  glanced  up  to  say, 
abruptly : 

"I  was  about  to  send  for  you,  Lowry.  Glad  to  see 
you  had  pluck  enough  to  come  here  off  your  own  bat. 
Nothing  to  say  for  yourself,  I  presume." 

"No  excuses  to  offer,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,  sir. 
I  plead  guilty.  But  unless  you  have  been  able  to 


276  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

fathom  the  method  by  which  I  was  robbed  of  those 
blue-prints,  possibly  you  may  care  to  hear  my  theory. 
It  is  the  only  one  that  fits." 

"Let's  have  it,"  snapped  the  commodore,  cocking 
his  head  like  a  ruffled  robin.  "Your  vice-admiral  in 
formed  us  that  you  were  utterly  befogged.  I  had  con 
sidered  you  rather  intelligent  — " 

Lowry  held  his  temper  and  stood  punctiliously  at 
attention  as  he  slowly  explained: 

"I  identified  the  dispatch  case  as  my  own,  beyond 
a  shadow  of  doubt.  The  proofs  were  unmistakable  — 
my  own  signature  written  in  ink  on  the  lining,  the 
initials  scratched  on  the  plate  of  the  lock,  the  marks 
of  wear  on  the  leather.  But  the  dispatch  case  was  not 
mine.  It  could  not  be.  I  was  finally  compelled  to 
argue  from  this  absurd  premise." 

"Absurd?"  echoed  the  commodore,  more  alertly. 
"It  sounds  asinine,  does  n't  it?" 

"Not  now,"  calmly  continued  Lowry.  "You  simply 
have  to  admit  it,  or  you  get  nowhere  at  all.  Now,  I 
had  my  hands  on  that  dispatch  case  all  the  way  from 
the  Admiralty  to  Grosvenor  Gardens,  so  I  honestly 
believed  until  I  came  to  check  up.  And  then  I  felt 
uncertain  of  the  fact.  When  my  taxi  stopped  to  let  a 
company  of  Seaforth  Highlanders  cross,  I  leaned  out 
of  the  window,  merely  poked  my  head  out,  for  a 
minute  or  two.  And  it  was  then  that  I  must  have  let 
the  dispatch  case  lie  on  the  seat  beside  me.  I  can't 
positively  say  that  I  did,  but  I  must  have  done 


so." 


Rather   possible,"    remarked    the    commodore. 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  277 

"And  I  should  scarcely  regard  it  as  culpable  care 
lessness.  What  then?" 

"It  is  conceivable  that  a  man  familiar  with  my 
movements  and  awaiting  an  opportunity  might  have 
slipped  up  to  the  window  opposite  from  me,  put  his 
arm  inside,  and  snatched  my  dispatch  case.  It  could 
have  been  done  in  a  flash,  and  my  back  was  turned, 
for  the  moment.  This  implies  that  he  left  in  its  place  a 
precise  duplicate,  imitating  it  in  every  respect." 

"And  your  delay  in  discovering  the  substitution 
would  have  given  the  thief  a  half -hour's  start,"  sug 
gested  the  commodore.  "But  what  if  he  had  a  key 
that  fitted  your  lock?  Is  it  a  plausible  guess  that  you 
still  possess  your  own  dispatch  case?" 

"No,  sir.  The  lock  had  rusted  and  was  not  easy  to 
turn.  Nobody  could  have  opened  my  case  and  pulled 
out  that  big  envelope  without  my  detecting  it." 

"But  how  the  deuce  could  this  lightning-change 
artist  have  left  in  the  taxi  a  leather  portfolio  that  you 
can't  swear  is  a  different  one  at  all?"  pursued  the 
commodore.  "A  bally  paradox,  Lowry.  Can't  you 
invent  a  better  one  than  that?" 

The  American  commander  winced,  and  his  distress 
was  so  poignant,  so  heart-broken,  that  it  appeared 
to  stir  a  sympathetic  chord  in  the  breast  of  the  im 
pulsive  sea-dog  of  the  Admiralty.  With  a  complete 
change  of  manner,  and  a  grin  of  purest  delight,  he 
darted  over  to  shake  Lowry's  hand,  to  pat  his  shoul 
der,  to  shout  at  him: 

"Splendid!  You  have  stood  the  gaff  nobly,  my 
boy.  I  hated  myself  for  subjecting  you  to  such  a 


278  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

wretched,  damnable  ordeal.  But  there  are  many  kinds 
of  service  in  war  — " 

"What's  that?  It's  not  as  bad  as  I  thought?" 
gasped  Lowry,  his  voice  breaking. 

"Bad?"  cackled  Commodore  Sir  Douglas  Hart, 
and  he  laughed  uproariously.  "It  is  top-hole!  Simply 
immense!  That  set  of  blue-prints  left  England  last 
night  in  the  hands  of  the  dolt  of  a  German  spy  that 
snatched  them  from  you.  And  old  Von  Tirpitz  will  be 
studying  them  to-night  and  pulling  his  whiskers  for 
sheer  delight." 

"Am  I  crazy,  or  are  you?  "  stammered  Lowry  whose 
head  was  spinning. 

"I  am  almost  clever,  at  times,"  modestly  admitted 
the  beaming  commodore.  "Those  elaborate  plans  of 
the  Dover  barrage  were  all  dreams.  Some  scheme  had 
to  be  devised  to  prevent  the  blackguards  from  getting 
down  the  Channel.  And  I'll  wager  a  new  hat  that  we 
have  frightened  'em  away  from  that  route  for  the  next 
month  or  two.  Meanwhile  we  shall  have  a  breathing 
spell  to  work  out  a  system  and  put  it  in  operation." 

"Those  blue-prints  were  nothing  but  camouflage?" 
cried  Lowry,  beginning  to  sense  the  humor  of  the  sit 
uation  and  forgetting  his  own  torments. 

"Solely  for  the  use  and  benefit  of  the  German  Ad 
miralty,"  chuckled  the  commodore.  "  The  difficult  end 
of  the  job  was  to  deliver  the  blue-prints.  We  were  aw 
fully  afraid  the  beggars  might  smell  a  rat.  The  men 
who  work  for  them  in  London  are  a  keen  lot.  Finally 
we  pitched  upon  you,  Lowry,  as  the  unfortunate  vic 
tim.  It  was  necessary,  do  you  see?  There  was  a  bit  of 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  279 

purposely  careless  talk,  and  German  ears  ready  to 
pick  it  up.  You  were  in  the  Admiralty  on  confidential 
duty.  You  were  making  daily  calls  at  the  American 
Naval  Headquarters,  always  with  a  leather  dispatch 
case.  And  at  the  proper  moment,  it  was  most  deli 
cately  conveyed  to  the  vigilant  Hun  spies  that  it 
might  be  worth  while  to  attempt  a  raid  on  that  dis 
patch  case  of  yours.  Our  own  agents  could  be  trusted 
to  impart  this  information  in  an  adroit  manner." 

"I  was  followed  by  another  taxi,  then,"  said  the 
wondering  Lowry.  "And  the  German  burglar  pulled 
up  close  when  my  own  taxi  was  halted  to  let  the 
troops  go  by;  That  was  when  he  turned  the  trick." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  had  been  followed  for  days  and 
days,"  the  commodore  cheerfully  informed  him. 
"The  German  asses  could  n't  help  seeing  you  pop  in 
and  out  of  the  Admiralty." 

"But  you  can't  explain  the  mystery  of  the  dispatch 
case,"  Lowry  insisted. 

"The  substitution?  Perfectly  simple.  Your  room  at 
the  hotel  was  entered  while  you  were  out  and  when 
the  dispatch  case  was  in  the  bureau  or  somewhere. 
It  was  borrowed  for  two  or  three  hours  and  then  re 
turned.  The  German  who  did  this  work  had  a  first- 
class  artisan  waiting  to  make  a  facsimile,  even  to  your 
autograph  and  .the  other  private  marks.  We  knew  all 
about  it,  but  declined  to  interfere  for  obvious  reasons. 
They  were  helping  the  game  on.  And  they  fancied 
themselves  so  jolly  intelligent  and  sly ! " 

A  reaction  of  feeling  caused  Lowry's  knees  to  cave 
under  him  and  he  supported  himself  against  a  window- 


280  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

ledge.  Resentment  at  having  been  made  a  dupe 
struggled  with  his  profound  relief  and  gratification. 
"But  why  couldn't  you  let  me  into  the  plot?"  he 
cried.  "The  result  would  have  been  the  same." 

"Ah,  we  had  to  use  every  possible  means  to  assure 
success.  It  was  a  ticklish  undertaking,  can't  you  see? 
Hostile  eyes  were  watching  every  step  you  took. 
Your  grief  and  humiliation  had  to  be  genuine.  We 
could  not  afford  pretenses.  The  odds  were  against  us, 
and  we  pulled  it  off." 

"I  am  disgraced,  nevertheless,"  sadly  observed  Com 
mander  Lowry.  "I  am  convicted  of  losing  valuable 
documents,  and  my  own  Service  will  not  forgive  me." 

"Buck  up,"  exhorted  the  commodore.  "Your  vice- 
admiral  will  clear  your  record  of  any  stain,  at  the 
persuasion  of  the  Admiralty.  The  dice  were  loaded 
against  you,  Lowry.  You  were  denied  a  fair  chance. 
Why,  I  was  in  the  conspiracy  myself.  You  have  taken 
your  punishment  like  an  officer  and  a  gentleman.  And 
you  were  no  dunce  when  it  came  to  solving  the  thing. 
I  flatter  myself  that  your  experience  with  me  has 
sharpened  your  wits." 

"Thank  God  for  one  thing!"  fervently  exclaimed 
Lowry.  His  back  was  toward  the  door  and  it  opened 
softly  as  he  spoke. 

"And  what  may  that  be?"  asked  the  commodore. 

"That  Lady  Violet  Chamberlayne  is  cleared  of  sus 
picion.  I  could  not  believe  that  she  was  n't  straight." 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Lowry,"  said  a  clear, 
sweet  voice,  and  the  American  officer  turned  to  face 
the  serene  and  charming  presence  of  Lady  Violet  her- 


THE  SILENT  SERVICE  281 

self.  He  colored  and  bowed  in  frank  homage.  Her 
smile  was  warm  and  friendly  as  she  went  on:  "I  could 
have  no  more  acceptable  a  champion.  And,  oh,  I  felt 
so  sorry  for  you  last  night.  I  could  have  wept." 

The  commodore  regarded  them  with  a  sort  of  pa 
rental  approval  as  he  said  to  Lowry: 

"Lady  Violet  is  one  of  our  most  valuable  agents. 
The  Admiralty  Intelligence  Service  has  found  her 
indispensable  for  certain  special  duties." 

"One  of  them  was  to  report  on  your  fitness  for  this 
confidential  employment  with  Commodore  Hart," 
confessed  the  radiant  Lady  Violet.  "I  recommended 
you,  after  our  voyage  together  from  New  York." 

"She  was  of  great  assistance  to  Colonel  Chambers 
Llewellyn  in  preparing  an  unimpeded  exit  from  Eng 
land  for  those  blue-prints,"  put  in  the  commodore. 
"They  were  a  frightfully  busy  pair  last  night." 

"I  presume  that  you  have  heard  some  horrid  ru 
mors  about  me,  Mr.  Lowry,"  sighed  Lady  Violet. 
"The  'Hidden  Hand,'  and  so  on?  I  have  been  com 
pelled  to  associate  with  some  quite  impossible  per 


sons." 


"The  Congressman  on  board  ship?"  suggested 
Lowry,  every  cloud  dispelled. 

"Oh,  that  disagreeable  pro-German  bounder?  He 
was  in  England  less  than  a  fortnight.  I  saw  to  it  that 
he  was  sent  home.  He  was  not  typical,  I'm  sure  — 
more  of  an  accident." 

"You  and  I  will  have  to  get  on  with  our  little  game 
of  hide-and-seek  with  the  U-boats,  Lowry,"  the  com 
modore  remarked,  with  a  shade  of  impatience. 


282  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"But  he  wants  to  command  a  destroyer,  Commo 
dore  Hart,"  protested  Lady  Violet.  "It  is  selfish  of 
you  to  insist  on  keeping  him  longer  in  this  stupid  old 
Admiralty." 

"There  is  opportunity  for  sea  duty,  even  in  this 
branch  of  the  silent  service,"  was  the  reply.  "If  your 
vice-admiral  is  willing,  Lowry,  supposing  you  stand 
watches  with  me  a  bit  longer.  I  promise  you  a  gor 
geous  show  of  being  drowned  or  blown  up,  which  is 
what  seems  to  please  you  Yankee  sailor-men." 

"I  didn't  mean  that!"  exclaimed  Lady  Violet, 
with  every  indication  of  alarm.  "Mr.  Lowry,  I  ex 
pect  an  humble  apology  for  failing  to  keep  your  en 
gagement  for  tea  yesterday.  May  I  expect  you  this 
afternoon?" 

"Without  fail,  Lady  Chamberlayne,"  devoutly  re 
plied  the  commander,  and  his  admiration  was  undis 
guised.  "I  shall  be  delighted  to  beg  your  pardon  on 
bended  knee." 

"Come,  come!"  cried  the  commodore,  darting 
over  to  his  chart  tables.  "We  have  to  get  on  with  the 
war,  Lowry.  A  dastardly  U-boat  is  operating  close  to 
the  Fastnet,  and  we  must  have  the  rotter  marked 
down  before  night." 


THE  RED  SECTOR 

WHEN  young  Howard  Glennan  enlisted  in  the  Naval 
Reserve,  he  had  high  hopes  of  being  sent  across  the 
water  to  play  the  great  game  of  hunting  the  Hun  in 
destroyers.  He  shared  this  eager  ambition  with  two 
hundred  tliousand  other  bluejackets  who  tugged  at 
the  leash  of  discipline  and  duty  like  so  many  terriers. 
To  be  kept  at  home  in  a  training  station  or  condemned 
to  the  coast  patrol  seemed  like  looking  through  the 
bars  of  a  cage. 

The  war  had  done  more  than  reawaken  the  old 
shipyards  of  Spring  Haven  on  the  coast  of  Maine. 
The  town  which  had  drowsily  recalled  its  brave  mem 
ories  of  the  seafaring  of  earlier  generations  now 
swarmed  with  fighting  men  in  the  blue  and  white  of 
the  Navy.  They  swung  their  hammocks  in  empty 
warehouses  and  drilled  and  scrubbed  to  the  shrill 
mandates  of  the  bugle  and  the  boatswain's  pipe. 
Their  armed  launches  and  power  cruisers  scurried 
seaward  to  chase  phantom  submarines  and  returned 
with  wet  and  hungry  crews.  They  were  learning  their 
trade  against  the  time  of  need,  and  the  spirit  and 
traditions  of  the  Service  were  quietly,  swiftly  mould 
ing  them  anew.  They  themselves,  their  opinions  and 
desires,  were  of  no  consequence.  What  the  country 
and  the  Navy  intended  them  to  be  and  do  —  this 
was  the  vital  factor,  the  one  essential. 

The  Army  and  its  recruiting  posters  had  held  no 


284  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

charm  for  such  a  youth  as  Howard  Glennan,  who  had 
been  bred  to  salt  water  like  his  fathers  before  him, 
who  had  tried  to  run  away  to  sea  at  the  tender  age  of 
twelve  and  was  dragged  back  to  school  a  weeping 
mutineer.  He  belonged  to  the  web-footed  breed,  and 
with  the  perversity  which  parents  occasionally  dis 
play,  his  dogmatic  sire  had  compelled  him  to  drudge 
in  a  grocery  store  and  vowed  to  keep  him  there  until 
he  was  twenty-one.  The  sea  was  played  out,  declaimed 
the  elder  Glennan,  who  had  long  ago  retired  from  the 
command  of  a  Yankee  square-rigger,  and  he  'd  stand 
no  such  darned  nonsense  from  any  boy  of  his. 

It  was  different,  however,  when  the  call  to  action 
came.  Grizzled  Captain  John  Glennan,  still  a  power 
ful,  deep-chested  figure  of  a  man,  pounded  his  only 
son  on  the  back  as  he  shouted: 

"The  Navy  wants  my  consent  before  you  enlist, 
Howard?  Why,  blast  their  stupid  picture,  it's  an 
insult!  Why  shouldn't  I  consent?  Don't  they  know 
who  you  are?  There's  been  Glennans  of  Spring  Haven 
afloat  in  every  war,  from  Caleb  that  had  the  True 
American  privateer  in  the  Revolution  and  scotched 
the  Britishers'  coat-tails  for  'em.  Go  to  it,  son,  and 
help  blow  those  German  outlaws  to  Davy  Jones  where 
they  belong!" 

"Thank  you.  Dad,"  smiled  Howard.  "What  about 
our  grocery  store?  Can  you  get  along  without  me?" 

"I  may  put  up  the  shutters!"  thundered  the 
father,  "and  let  her  stay  out  of  commission  until 
we've  licked  the  Huns.  S'pose  I'll  set  and  twiddle  my 
thumbs  behind  a  counter?  There'll  be  dozens  of  new 


THE  RED  SECTOR  285 

merchant  ships  needing  officers.  I  guess  I'd  better 
trundle  into  Boston  right  away  and  write  my  name 
down.  Mother  won't  starve,  even  if  I  do  get  drownded. 
There's  a  dollar  or  two  laid  by  in  the  toe  of  a  stock 
ing." 

In  a  way,  the  joke  was  on  young  Howard  Glennan 
as  matters  turned  out.  Summer  had  passed  and  he 
was  still  puttering  about  with  the  coast  patrol  out  of 
Spring  Haven  while  his  doughty  father  had  sailed  as 
first  officer  of  a  big  steel  cargo  steamer,  was  torpedoed 
and  picked  up  adrift  off  the  coast  of  France,  and  had 
gone  out  again  as  skipper  of  a  tanker  bound  to  the 
North  Sea.  He  wrote  home  that  being  blown  up  was 
exciting  until  a  man  got  used  to  it.  Shipmates  of  his 
that  had  been  h'isted  three  or  four  times  told  him 
that  the  novelty  soon  wore  off.  Anyhow,  the  life 
agreed  with  him  better  than  beating  around  the  Horn 
in  a  wind-jammer  in  the  dead  o'  winter. 

Such  brisk  tidings  filled  Howard  Glennan  with 
chagrin  and  made  him  melancholy.  He  had  assumed 
that  his  old  barnacle  of  a  dad  was  a  back  number, 
merely  fit  to  look  on  while  adventurous  youth  fought 
the  war  and  risked  its  dangers.  Why,  at  this  rate  a 
man  was  safer  in  the  Navy  than  if  he  played  foot 
ball  or  drove  a  car.  They  took  too  good  care  of  you, 
in  fact  —  fussing  about  your  health  and  your  habits 
and  how  you  folded  your  clothes  and  brushed  your 
teeth  and  stowed  your  canvas  bag. 

When  ashore  he  lived  at  the  training  station,  which 
had  overflowed  into  an  old  warehouse,  while  for  sea 
duty  he  was  assigned  to  a  fifty -foot  patrol  boat  which 


286  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

bucketed  among  the  islands  off  the  coast  and  dared 
the  open  ocean  in  fair  weather.  She  had  been  a  shapely 
craft  and  the  pride  of  her  owner,  but  after  her  enroll 
ment  in  the  Navy  he  viewed  her  once,  rubbed  his 
eyes,  then  wept  and  turned  away.  The  emotions  of 
Howard  Glennan  were  similar.  He  regarded  a  vessel 
with  the  eye  of  a  mariner.  To  spoil  her  beauty  was  an 
act  of  cruelty. 

This  Golden  Rod,  "C.P.  178,"  had  been  hauled  out 
on  the  marine  railway  at  the  Fen  wick  shipyard  and 
young  Glennan,  able  seaman,  was  under  the  bottom 
scraping  paint  with  two  of  his  comrades.  Presently 
he  crawled  out,  eased  his  cramped  muscles,  and 
gazed  at  the  unholy  transformation  which  had  be 
daubed  the  sides  with  patches  of  pink  and  blue  and 
green  in  a  delirious  scheme  of  camouflage,  clapped 
on  a  rough  deck-house  which  looked  like  an  over 
grown  hencoop,  sawed  away  the  polished  oak  rails  to 
make  clearance  for  a  gun,  and  boarded  up  the  plate- 
glass  windows  of  the  cabin.  The  Golden  Rod  might  be 
efficient,  but  she  was  no  longer  elegant.  Her  aspect 
was  positively  dissolute. 

The  yard  was  building  two  four-masted  schooners 
whose  handsome  hulls  rose  from  the  sloping  keel- 
blocks  which  led  to  the  river's  edge.  A  lanky,  leathery 
patriarch  who  wore  a  black  coat  and  a  flapping  straw 
hat  appeared  to  be  in  charge  of  one  of  them,  and  he 
now  strolled  over  to  squint  at  the  patrol  boat  which 
squatted  high  and  dry.  With  a  chuckle  he  extended  a 
corded  hand  to  young  Glennan  and  exclaimed: 

"It's  nigh  on  forty  years  since  I  begun  imbibin' 


THE  RED  SECTOR  287 

three  fingers  of  Medford  rum  before  breakfast  to 
keep  the  dampness  out,  and  I  dunno  as  it  ever  did 
me  a  mite  o'  harm.  But  I  quit  right  now  till  that 
loony  packet  of  yourn  is  away  and  gone.  For  God's 
sake,  look  at  her,  Howard.  She's  an  acute  case  of 
nautical  tremens." 

"Those  gobs  of  paint,  Cap'n  Amazeen?  That's  to 
fool  the  enemy,"  seriously  replied  the  bluejacket. 
"The  colors  blend  at  sea  and  decrease  her  visibility." 

"So  I'm  told,  but  it's  highly  indecent,"  was  the 
dry  comment.  "And  what  do  you  cal'late  to  do  with 
that  invisible  little  nightmare  when  she's  afloat?" 

"Oh,  we  take  our  turn  —  a  three  days'  trip  — 
north'ard  from  Pemaquid  Point.  The  patrol  areas 
are  marked  in  blocks  on  the  chart.  We  anchor  at 
night  and  go  messing  around  all  day.  It's  no  fun. 
Too  stupid." 

Captain  Wesley  Amazeen  shaved  a  chew  of  tobacco 
and  sftiffed  it  in  his  wizened  cheek.  Age  had  not  faded 
his  shrewd  eyes  nor  crippled  the  sinewy  frame.  Tough 
as  whalebone  and  wicked  as  sin,  his  fellow  skippers 
had  called  him,  but  there  was  whimsical  tenderness 
in  his  smile  as  he  said: 

"I've  watched  you  grow  up,  Howard,  and  your 
old  man  and  me  sailed  together  in  the  fo'castle  when 
we  were  boys.  I'm  proud  to  see  you  wearin'  Navy 
clothes.  It's  a  he-man's  job  and  I  expect  you  to  shove 
along  an*  win  promotion." 

"I'll  try,  sir,"  replied  Glennan,  his  cheek  a  bit 
redder,  his  head  held  high.  Captain  Amazeen's  man 
ner  had  implied  a  veiled  rebuke.  "I'm  an  awful  dub 


288  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

at  mathematics  —  solid  ivory  —  so  I  Ve  passed  up 
working  for  an  ensign's  commission.  But  I  hope  to 
be  a  petty  officer  before  long." 

"You  ought  to  be,  Howard.  There  ain't  a  smarter 
coast  pilot  'twixt  here  and  the  Penobscot,  and  you  're 
mighty  handy  aboard  any  kind  of  a  vessel.  But 
you've  got  to  put  your  back  into  it.  Do  all  you  can 
and  then  a  little  bit  more." 

"Do  you  mean  to  accuse  me  of  sojering?"  hotly 
demanded  Glennan. 

"No,  but  I  watched  you  from  the  stagin'  over 
yonder,"  calmly  explained  the  old  man,  "and  you 
wa'n't  handlin'  that  scraper  as  if  winnin'  the  war 
depended  on  how  fast  you  cleaned  the  weeds  off  them 
planks.  I  know  how  you  young  high-steppers  feel. 
There 's  no  glory  in  stayin'  at  home.  This  Uncle  Sam's 
Navy  is  n't  run  by  a  passel  of  fools,  son.  They  know 
where  they  need  you  lads  most.  Better  leave  it  to 
Josephus  Daniels  and  his  star-spangled  admirals." 

"But  we  may  be  kept  on  this  silly  coast  patrol 
until  the  end  of  the  war,"  protested  the  able  seaman. 

"Silly?"  croaked  Captain  Wesley  Amazeen,  and 
his  voice  was  confidential  as  he  went  on:  "It's  no 
more  than  a  hunch,  Howard,  but  it'll  pay  you  to 
keep  your  weather  eye  lifted  every  blessed  minute. 
Use  your  wits,  too,  and  sharpen  'em  regular,  like 
honin'  a  razor.  Your  knowledge  of  these  waters  and 
the  folks  alongshore  is  wuth  somethin'.  The  Regular 
Navy  men  ain't  got  it.  Them  pizen  Germans  is  as 
busy  as  weevils  in  a  barrel  of  hard-tack." 

Glennan  blinked  at  this,  and  his  face  was  incredu- 


THE  RED  SECTOR  289 

lous.  Old  Amazeen  had  rambled  on  like  a  man  in  his 
dotage,  but  he  was  one  of  the  superintendents  of  the 
shipyard  and  renowned  for  handling  artisans  and 
materials  to  the  best  advantage.  After  a  thoughtful 
pause,  the  bluejacket  ventured  to  say: 

"A  hunch,  sir?  Then  you  think  there  is  something 
in  the  wind?  It  never  occurred  to  me  —  and  I  can't 
imagine  what  you  are  driving  at." 

"No  more  can  I,"  grimly  declared  the  mariner, 
"but  they  used  to  say  I  could  smell  trouble  in  the 
fo'castle  long  before  it  started.  You  are  Cap'n  John 
Glennan's  boy  and  rated  as  a  chip  of  the  old  block. 
Now  forget  what  I  said  and  turn  to  on  your  job.  You 
won't  blab  or  bungle,  if  I  know  your  blood.  Just  re 
member,  Howard,  that  Fritz  is  a  slimy  fighter  and 
the  war  zone  begins  on  this  side  o'  the  big  pond." 

It  was  an  important  interview  for  the  happy-go- 
lucky  young  seaman  who  had  been  bitten  by  discon 
tent.  He  was  candid  enough  to  admit  that  he  deserved 
the  kindly  censure.  His  heart  had  not  been  in  the 
daily  task.  He  was  not  living  it  up  to  the  hilt.  The 
gospel  of  duty,  hour  by  hour,  had  become  a  trifle 
blurred.  As  for  Wesley  Amazeen's  hunch,  the  old 
man  never  told  all  he  knew,  and  his  knack  of  sensing 
the  intangible  was  said  to  be  uncanny. 

Now  when  a  decent  young  man  of  twenty  is  jarred 
by  some  bump  or  other,  his  natural  impulse  is  to  talk 
it  over  with  the  girl  he  knows  best  of  all.  If  she  is  the 
right  one,  she  offers  the  kind  of  sympathy  which  heals 
the  hurts  of  wounded  pride  and  inspires  high  resolves. 
Upon  a  sea-washed  headland  near  Spring  Haven  was 


290  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

a  summer  hotel,  modern,  large,  and  expensive,  which 
was  called  the  Winnebassett.  In  the  humble  role  of 
a  clerk  in  the  paternal  store,  Howard  Glennan  had 
delivered  many  a  wagon-load  of  groceries  at  the 
kitchen  entrance,  while  in  the  evening  he  might  have 
been  seen,  correctly  clad  and  displaying  excellent 
manners,  in  the  company  of  one  of  the  most  charm 
ing  guests,  Miss  Barbara  Downes,  who  was  socially 
recognized  even  by  exclusive  persons  from  Boston. 

Her  father,  Franklin  Downes,  had  made  his  money 
in  copper,  but  there  were  New  England  sea  captains 
among  his  forbears  and  he  was  fond  of  Spring  Haven 
and  its  salty  chronicles.  It  had  been  his  democratic 
habit  in  previous  summers  to  linger  in  Captain  John 
Glennan's  grocery  store,  where  he  swung  his  legs  from 
a  counter  and  listened  to  yarns  of  vanished  ships  and 
tarry  sailors  whose  souls  had  fled  to  Fiddler's  Green. 
Mrs.  Franklin  Downes  was  a  placid,  motherly  woman 
whose  tastes  were  of  the  simplest  and  whose  soul  was 
unvexed  by  problems  of  caste  and  position.  There 
was  no  reason  why  they  should  put  on  airs  because 
they  were  rich,  said  she,  and  too  much  money  was 
an  affliction  anyhow.  The  nicest  people  seemed  to 
get  along  with  precious  little  of  it. 

There  were  guests  at  the  Winnebassett  who  had 
been  shocked  to  see  Barbara  Downes  walking  or 
dancing  with  the  village  grocer's  son,  but  when  such 
gossip  reached  her  ears  she  took  pains  to  present 
young  Mr.  Glennan  to  these  fastidious  critics  as  a 
member  of  an  old  and  respected  family  which  had 
won  prestige  for  the  Stars  and  Stripes  on  every  sea 


THE  RED  SECTOR  291 

through  six  generations.  The  war  had  swept  false 
social  standards  into  the  rubbish  heap.  The  uniform 
now  leveled  all  barriers,  excepting  those  of  Army  and 
Navy  rank.  When  Howard  Glennan,  able  seaman, 
called  at  the  hotel,  nobody  knew  or  cared  what  he 
had  been  before  he  enlisted.  He  bore  himself  as  a 
gentleman  and  this  was  enough. 

As  soon  as  the  giddy  Golden  Rod  slid  into  the  water 
from  the  marine  railway  he  was  granted  a  few  hours 
of  liberty.  In  his  blue  blouse  with  the  rolling  collar, 
loose  kerchief  very  precisely  knotted,  flowing  trousers, 
and  cap  set  on  three  hairs,  he  was  a  proper  sailor, 
and  the  naval  station  might  have  been  proud  of  its 
handiwork. 

The  June  twilight  was  fading  when  he  skirted  the 
beach  and  turned  to  climb  a  path  which  led  over  the 
rocks.  Strong  and  tireless,  he  almost  ran  up  the  rough 
ascent  to  the  hotel  and  was  about  to  cross  the  lawn 
when  his  questing  vision  caught  a  glimpse  of  Barbara 
Downes,  who  had  walked  toward  the  outer  end  of 
the  headland  and  the  white  lighthouse  that  crowned 
it.  She  stood  adorably  outlined  against  the  sky,  a 
figure  slender  and  erect,  and  Glennan  paused  to  gaze 
at  what  should  have  been  a  flawless  picture,  but, 
alas,  it  was  marred  for  him  by  the  intrusion  of  an 
other  man.  He  was  a  stranger  and  he  knew  how  to 
make  himself  agreeable.  This  much  was  already  obvi 
ous.  Jealousy  clouded  the  sailor's  bright  mood.  Miss 
Downes  was  quick  to  read  his  emotions.  His  face  was 
an  open  book  and  he  wore  his  heart  on  his  sleeve. 

The  other  man  was  older,  perhaps  thirty,  with  an 


292  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

air  of  poise  and  resolution,  of  having  done  things  and 
done  them  well.  He  wore  his  clothes  with  distinction, 
his  manner  was  easy  and  cordial,  and  Glennan  reluc 
tantly  admitted  to  himself  that  the  fellow  was  con 
foundedly  good-looking.  Shaking  hands  as  the  girl 
introduced  them,  he  affably  explained: 

"I  am  in  charge  of  construction  work  for  the  new 
training  station.  I  hope  to  move  you  out  of  those  old 
warehouses  in  a  few  weeks.  It's  a  rush  job.  Nothing 
is  too  good  for  the  Navy." 

"Great  news,  Mr.  Kline,"  replied  Glennan.  "We 
surely  do  need  more  room  and  those  rough  floors  are 
awful  to  keep  clean.  The  dust  of  a  hundred  years 
shakes  down  whenever  a  man  turns  over  in  his  ham 
mock.  Are  you  from  the  Navy  Department?" 

"No.  I  wish  I  wore  the  uniform.  My  firm  is  doing 
some  contract  work  for  the  Government.  This  is  our 
first  naval  job." 

"Mr.  Kline  is  with  Kimball  and  Bacon,"  explained 
Barbara  Downes.  "He  built  the  power  house  for  one 
of  father's  copper  properties  in  Montana.  This  is  how 
we  happened  to  get  acquainted  to-day." 

"Your  first  visit  to  Spring  Haven?"  politely  in 
quired  Howard  Glennan.  "The  idea  of  a  'rush  job' 
would  have  startled  us  natives  a  few  months  ago." 

"A  town  with  atmosphere,  charm,  a  storied  past," 
responded  Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline.  "I  cruised  along 
this  coast  in  a  friend's  yacht  several  years  ago,  but 
we  missed  old  Spring  Haven." 

They  moved  in  the  direction  of  the  long  piazza. 
The  sailor  was  in  a  silent  humor  while  the  construe- 


THE  RED  SECTOR  293 

tion  engineer  talked  fluently  and  held  Miss  Barbara's 
interest.  It  was  something,  just  to  sit  and  look  at  her, 
pensively  reflected  the  youngster.  He  came  out  of 
himself  and  listened  when  Mr.  Kline  recalled  several 
diverting  incidents  of  that  holiday  cruise  along  the 
Maine  coast. 

"You  must  be  acquainted  with  all  the  reefs  and 
islands,  Mr.  Glennan,"  he  suggested.  "It's  a  wonder 
we  did  n't  try  to  run  over  a  few  of  them.  The  skipper 
of  the  yacht  was  one  of  those  stubborn  Norwegians 
who  refused  to  take  advice  and  did  his  own  navigat 
ing  instead  of  picking  up  a  fisherman  or  pilot." 

"You  ran  a  chance  of  losing  your  boat,"  said 
Howard.  "It's  not  safe  to  run  by  the  charts  unless 
you  know  the  set  of  the  tides  and  the  cross-currents." 

"Right  you  are.  You  don't  have  to  tell  me,"  agreed 
Mr.  Kline,  with  a  laugh.  "I  flattered  myself  that  I 
learned  something  while  we  were  blundering  about. 
There  was  one  mighty  close  shave.  My  knees  wobbled, 
I'll  confess,  and  I'm  sure  I  turned  pale.  We  were 
trying  to  make  harbor  before  dark,  but  the  fog  shut 
down  and  we  poked  along  at  three  or  four  knots, 
feeling  our  way  among  those  rocky  islands.  The 
skipper  had  no  idea  where  he  was,  but  the  old  fool 
refused  to  anchor.  Finally  the  weather  lifted  a  bit 
and  we  saw  a  few  stars  overhead.  Then  a  lighthouse 
flashed  dead  ahead.  I'll  swear  it  was  right  on  top  of 
us.  Before  the  yacht  could  back  off  with  engines  re 
versed  we  rammed  the  steep  cliff  at  the  base  of  the 
light,  smashed  our  bowsprit,  and  crumpled  the  cut 
water  like  an  old  hat." 


294  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Howard  Glennan  leaned  forward  in  the  chair,  his 
professional  interest  kindled. 

"And  your  forward  bulkhead  held?"  he  asked. 
"There  was  steep  water  right  up  to  the  base  of  the 
cliff?" 

"There  must  have  been,"  answered  Mr.  Guy 
Webber  Kline.  "Yes,  the  yacht  stayed  afloat  and  we 
limped  into  port  next  day.  It  was  Thorpe's  Island 
that  we  rammed,  as  we  discovered  on  the  chart.  But 
for  the  thick  weather  we  could  have  seen  the  light 
ten  miles  away  and  steered  to  the  west  of  the  red 
sector.  That  gives  you  a  safe  passage  through  the 
channel,  as  I  recall  it." 

"  Thorpe's  Island?  "  echoed  Glennan,  very  abruptly. 
"And  the  light  shows  a  red  sector  which  you  must 
keep  to  the  west'ard  of?  Oh,  yes,  I  understand,  Mr. 
Kline.  You  have  a  good  memory  for  a  landsman.  How 
long  ago  was  that  cruise  of  yours?" 

"  Four  years.  A  night  like  that  stamps  itself  on  one's 
memory,  don't  you  know.  How  deep  is  the  water 
where  we  smashed  full  tilt  into  Thorpe's  Island?" 

"Twelve  fathom  close  in  —  shoaling  to  seven  feet 
in  the  middle  of  the  passage  where  a  ledge  is  marked 
by  a  spindle  beacon  with  a  gas  buoy  at  the  tail  of  it. 
Lucky  you  did  n't  pile  up  on  the  ledge,  Mr.  Kline." 

A  little  later  the  engineer  excused  himself  on  the 
plea  that  a  pile  of  blue-prints  demanded  his  attention. 
Glennan  bade  him  a  cordial  good-night  at  which  Mr. 
Kline  smiled  discreetly.  He  was  quite  aware  that  the 
ingenuous  sailor  had  thought  him  superfluous.  Barbara 
Downes  glanced  after  him  and  tactlessly  remarked: 


THE  RED  SECTOR  295 

"Awfully  pleasant,  is  n't  he,  Howard?  He  made  a 
hit  with  father  who  had  met  him  out  West.  That  is 
how  he  happened  to  dine  with  us." 

"He  seems  like  a  good  sport,"  agreed  the  sailor, 
but  without  enthusiasm.  "If  you  like  him  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  keep  my  mouth  shut,  but,  by  jingo,  I 
can't—" 

"What  in  the  world!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "How 
could  he  have  offended  you?" 

It  was  the  advice  of  Captain  Wesley  Amazeen  that 
had  stirred  the  young  man  to  vigilant  attention  in 
stead  of  careless  disregard  of  what  went  on  around 
him.  He  was  a  day-dreamer  awakened.  No  trifles 
were  insignificant.  Otherwise  he  might  have  paid  no 
heed  to  the  blunder  of  which  the  agreeable  Mr.  Guy 
Webber  Kline  had  been  guilty.  Unhesitatingly  he  re 
solved  to  confide  in  Barbara.  She  was  a  loyal  comrade 
and  he  needed  her  counsel  and  partnership.  It  was 
not  "blabbing"  to  discuss  the  curious  episode  with 
her.  His  voice  betrayed  excitement  as  he  said: 

"It  sounds  queer,  but  the  clever  engineer  made  a 
slip  that  lays  him  open  to  suspicion.  He  had  no  idea 
that  he  did  it,  and  it  almost  got  by  me." 

"Suspicion  of  what?"  demanded  Barbara,  who  had 
common  sense  as  well  as  beauty.  She  inferred  that 
jealousy  had  twisted  the  vision  of  this  devoted  ad 
mirer. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what,"  confessed  Howard, 
rubbing  his  chin  in  a  rueful  manner.  "I  may  be  a 
false  alarm.  Now,  listen,  please,  and  swear  to  keep 
mum.  You  heard  him  call  it  Thorpe's  Island?  Do  you 


296  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

know  where  he  found  that  name?  It  is  on  a  new  chart 
just  revised  by  the  Hydrographic  Office  and  printed 
for  the  use  of  the  Navy  coast  patrol.  The  chart  has 
not  been  placed  on  sale.  Copies  issued  to  us  are 
marked  secret  and  confidential,  because  they  have 
certain  marks,  bearings,  and  data  which  will  be  re 
moved  from  the  edition  given  out  to  mariners." 

In  breathless  accents  Miss  Downes  apologized  for 
doubting  so  remarkable  a  young  man  and  begged  him 
to  unwind  another  strand  of  the  mystery. 

"But  what  had  Thorpe's  Island  to  do  with  it, 
Howard?  It  got  in  the  way  of  their  yacht,  which  was 
very  rude  of  it,  but  I  fear  I  am  not  bright  enough  to 
follow  you." 

"It  is  called  Thorpe's  Island  on  this  new  naval 
chart,  but  nowhere  else.  It  has  always  been  Merry's 
Island  to  fishermen  and  coastwise  mariners,  and  this 
is  the  name  of  it  on  the  charts  in  general  use." 

"How  perplexing!"  cried  Miss  Downes,  puckering 
her  brows.  "What  is  the  reason  for  changing  it  to 
Thorpe's  Island?" 

"To  prevent  confusion  and  make  navigation  easier 
for  naval  officers  unfamiliar  with  the  coast,"  replied 
Glennan,  with  more  confidence.  "Mary  Island  lies 
only  seven  miles  to  the  south'ard  and  it  sounds  too 
much  like  Merry's  Island.  You  can  imagine  a  Navy 
skipper  of  the  coast  patrol  hailing  a  dory  or  a  lumber 
schooner  to  get  a  set  of  bearings  and  having  one  of 
these  names  shouted  back  at  him.  He  cocks  an  eye 
at  the  chart,  finds  Mary  Island  and  Merry's  Island 
not  far  apart,  and  may  go  streaking  off  on  a  totally 


THE  RED  SECTOR  297 

wrong   course.    Hence  Thorpe's   Island   from  now 


on." 


"But,  Howard,  you  are  accusing  Mr.  Kline  of 
stealing  one  of  your  Navy  charts  or  of  looking  at  it 
when  he  hadn't  ought  to!"  exclaimed  the  scandal 
ized  Barbara. 

"He  had  better  get  busy  with  an  alibi,"  affirmed 
the  sailor.  "He  has  no  right  to  examine  one  of  those 
charts,  of  course.  He  is  not  in  the  Service.  Now  can't 
you  figure  out  how  he  made  the  slip?  All  charts  may 
look  alike  to  him,  and  it  had  n't  occurred  to  him  that 
the  name  of  an  island  might  have  been  changed.  One 
thing  more !  That  lighthouse  did  not  show  a  red  sector 
until  March  of  this  year.  He  said  his  yachting  cruise 
was  four  years  ago,  remember?" 

"And  the  light  was  changed  only  a  few  months  ago? 
There  was  no  red  sector  until  then?"  queried  the  girl. 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline 
cribbed  that  from  the  Navy  chart,  too." 

"But  I  am  quite  sure  he  is  not  a  stupid  man,  How 
ard.  To  let  himself  be  tripped  so  easily  by  —  er  —  by 
a  mere  boy." 

"Thanks  for  the  insult,"  was  the  dignified  retort. 
"The  trouble  with  that  bird  is  that  he's  no  sailor. 
I  don't  believe  he  ever  cruised  on  this  coast  in  any 
body's  yacht.  The  yarn  did  n't  listen  right  to  me.  But 
he  might  have  got  by  with  it  if  he  had  n't  assumed 
that  islands  and  lights  were  the  same  on  all  charts. 
It  was  a  slight  bet  he  overlooked." 

"But  why  did  he  tell  you  the  story  ?  "  was  the  very 
natural  query. 


298  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Perhaps  to  coax  some  information  out  of  me,  a 
little  at  a  time.  You  noticed  that  he  asked  the  depth 
of  water  off  Thorpe's  Island.  Next  he  may  try  to 
pump  me  about  the  tide  and  the  bottom.  Or  it  may 
have  been  merely  to  scrape  acquaintance  by  talking 
my  kind  of  stuff.  I  am  all  in  the  dark,  Barbara,  but  I 
don't  like  the  notion  of  his  squinting  at  confidential 
charts.  And,  besides,  Captain  Wesley  Amazeen  had 
a  hunch.  Maybe  this  is  it." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  don't  dislike  Mr.  Kline 
just  because  —  well,  because  —  you  know  what  I 
mean,  don't  you?"  suggested  Miss  Downes  after  a 
deliberate  pause.  "I  want  you  to  be  fair-minded, 
Howard." 

"Because  he  got  on  so  well  with  you?"  cried  her 
sturdy  champion.  "I'd  love  to  punch  his  head  for  it, 
but  that  would  n't  be  getting  on  with  the  war.  No,  I 
promise  to  play  the  game  on  the  level.  It  is  your  war 
and  mine,  Barbara.  Will  you  help  me  keep  an  eye  on 
Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline?" 

Her  warm  hand  clasped  his  in  token  of  an  alliance 
and  her  voice  rang  strong  and  true  as  she  answered: 

"Your  Navy  and  mine,  Howard,  and  I  will  stand 
watch  and  watch  with  you." 

The  Golden  Rod  went  to  sea  next  morning  on  patrol 
duty.  The  ensign  in  command  had  won  his  commis 
sion  in  the  naval  militia  before  the  war  and  he  was  a 
lawyer  by  trade,  an  earnest  young  man  whom  not 
even  seasickness  could  daunt.  Tall,  thin,  and  dry  of 
manner,  he  ruled  his  cockle-shell  of  a  cruiser  with  the 
most  punctilious  attention  to  detail.  His  dozen  blue- 


THE  RED  SECTOR  299 

jackets  respected  his  zeal  and  agreed  that  he  would 
make  a  good  officer  in  time.  In  a  tight  pinch  they  felt 
that  he  would  show  sand  and  resolution  and  this 
counted  greatly  in  his  favor.  Behind  his  back  they 
imitated  the  precise  bearing  and  awkward  gestures  of 
Ensign  Ambrose  J.  Walters,  but  they  jumped  when 
he  gave  an  order,  and  he,  in  turn,  declared  that  there 
were  no  finer  lads  in  the  whole  American  Navy. 

The  acting  navigator  of  the  Golden  Rod  was  How 
ard  Glennan,  able  seaman,  who  could  have  set  most 
of  the  courses  with  his  eyes  shut.  When  released  from 
his  trick  at  the  wheel  he  curled  up  and  slept  on  a 
transom  in  the  deck-house,  ready  for  a  call.  The  other 
men  drilled  at  the  one  popgun  in  the  bow,  polished 
brass,  were  taught  to  handle  cutlass  and  rifle,  and  in 
the  leisure  hours  Ensign  Walters  delivered  lectures 
on  the  theory  and  practice  of  naval  warfare,  quoting 
Nelson,  Farragut,  and  Captain  Mahan.  He  intended 
that  the  Golden  Rod  should  be  ready  to  engage  the 
enemy.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have  turned 
tail  to  a  first-class  battleship. 

Many  of  the  islands  scattered  far  off  the  Maine 
coast  are  singularly  remote  and  unfrequented,  bits 
of  wilderness  marked  from  seaward  by  a  few  trees 
all  twisted  by  the  winter  gales,  a  patch  of  green  grass, 
or  the  flash  of  surf  playing  among  gigantic  boulders. 
It  seems  as  though  some  mighty  convulsion  of  nature 
must  have  hurled  them  where  they  lie,  as  fragments 
of  a  bursting  shell  are  flung  at  random.  Ensign  Wal 
ters  liked  to  cruise  among  them  so  long  as  he  had  a 
capable  pilot  in  Seaman  Glennan,  for  they  broke  the 


300  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

uneasy  motion  of  the  Atlantic  swell  beyond  and  pre 
vented  those  dismal  qualms  which  imparted  a  tinge 
of  green  to  his  sandy  complexion. 

The  wind  breathed  soft  from  the  land  and  the  sky 
indicated  settled  weather  as  the  patrol  boat  dropped 
one  island  and  fairway  after  another  over  her  stern, 
and  the  crew  cast  wistful  glances  at  the  galley  window 
from  which  an  aroma  of  fish  chowder  was  wafted.  The 
Navy  had  called  them  from  factory,  farm,  and  college 
to  meet  the  test  without  fear  or  favor.  The  barefooted 
lad  who  had  been  peeling  potatoes  glanced  up  as  the 
Golden  Rod  slipped  past  a  plutocratic  summer  place 
which  resembled  the  estate  of  a  feudal  baron  and 
casually  remarked: 

"There's  mother  and  Sis  waving  handkerchiefs.  I 
don't  dare  wig- wag  back.  Seems  funny  not  to  see  the 
Hesperus  anchored  in  the  cove.  Dad  wrote  that  he 
had  loaned  her  to  the  Government  for  a  dollar  a  month 
and  she 's  on  her  way  to  the  French  coast.  Some  sea 
going  boat,  that.  He  was  fitting  out  for  a  cruise  around 
the  world  when  this  war  busted  loose." 

"Who  wouldn't  leave  a  happy  home  for  this?" 
grinned  a  stalwart  comrade  as  he  plied  a  deck-mop. 
"Say,  bo,  you  ought  to  have  worked  pull  enough  to  be 
shifted  to  your  own  yacht.  Why  miss  a  chance  to  beat 
it  for  the  war  zone?" 

"Pull  be  hanged!"  retorted  the  cook's  helper.  "My 
boss  in  the  galley  says  I  skin  a  spud  like  an  artist. 
What  more  can  I  ask?  They  waste  no  compliments  in 
this  man's  navy." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  Golden  Rod  rounded  an 


THE  RED  SECTOR  301 

islet  of  naked  granite  that  rose  like  a  lonely  pinnacle. 
Far  in  the  distance,  blurred  by  the  smoky  haze,  the 
white  shaft  of  a  lighthouse  barely  lifted  above  the 
horizon.  Howard  Glennan  gazed  at  it  with  more  than 
passing  interest  and  turned  to  scan  the  chart  which 
was  pinned  to  a  table  in  the  wheel-house.  Ensign 
Walters  squinted  through  his  binoculars,  replaced 
them  in  the  rack,  and  said : 

"Thorpe's  Island?  The  best  run  yet,  Glennan.  It 
took  us  forty  minutes  longer  last  trip,  with  the  tide 
about  the  same." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  tried  that  short  cut  through  Parlin 
Thoroughfare.  It 's  safe  enough  if  you  reach  it  at  high 
water." 

Glennan  changed  the  course  two  points  and  looked 
at  the  compass  card.  Sighting  Thorpe's  Island  light 
had  recalled  the  genial  Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline  and 
his  reference  to  revisions  of  the  chart  which  he  was 
not  presumed  to  know.  It  was  too  intangible  to  men 
tion  to  Ensign  Walters,  who  might  laugh  at  such 
conjectures  as  rubbish.  He  was  in  a  sociable  humor 
and  presently  exclaimed: 

"The  newspapers  have  printed  some  nonsense 
about  German  wireless  stations  on  this  coast.  Noth 
ing  in  it,  of  course.  They  could  n't  hide  a  plant  on 
one  of  these  islands." 

"Right  you  are,  sir,"  replied  Glennan.  "Our  pa 
trol  would  nail  'em  in  a  jiffy.  And  the  fishermen  are 
good  scouts.  They  would  report  anything  that  looked 
queer." 

"Yes,  the  Naval  Intelligence  people  keep  in  touch 


302  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

with  the  natives,  I  am  quite  sure.  This  wireless  stuff 
is  like  rumors  of  a  submarine  base.  All  moonshine. 
Some  bright  reporter  invents  a  yarn,  or  a  motorboat 
sees  a  lobster  buoy  adrift  and  calls  it  a  lurking  peri 
scope." 

"It  makes  something  to  talk  about,  sir.  The  public 
ashore  will  bite  at  'most  anything  these  days.  They 
beg  for  exciting  dope,  whether  it's  true  or  not.  I'll 
bet  I  know  this  coast  better  than  any  German  and 
I  could  n't  tuck  a  submarine  base  away  to  save  my 
soul." 

The  ensign  nodded  assent  and  spoke  in  his  abrupt, 
official  manner.  "Slow  down  beyond  Thorpe's  Island 
and  stand  well  out  to  get  plenty  of  room  before  dark." 

"Aye,  sir.  If  you  don't  mind  I  should  like  to  make 
a  turn  after  the  light  is  lit  and  run  back  to  fix  a  bear 
ing  or  two.  This  is  a  new  chart  and  - 

"Anything  wrong  with  it,  Glennan?  You  have  run 
past  here  several  times  and  seemed  sure  of  your 
courses." 

"  The  chart  is  correct,  sir,  but  we  may  be  in  a  hurry 
one  of  these  nights  and  there  is  another  channel  which 
I  might  want  to  use." 

"Very  well.  We'll  loaf  out  here  this  evening  and 
then  jog  to  the  west'ard  and  exchange  signals  with 
the  patrol  boat  in  the  next  block." 

The  crew  loafed  on  deck  in  the  dusk  while  the  little 
Golden  Rod  rolled  with  a  gentle,  cradling  motion  and 
showed  no  lights  as  she  sheared  through  a  placid  sea. 
The  light  on  Thorpe's  Island  flashed  like  a  brilliant 
jewel,  its  rays  as  white  as  a  diamond  until  Glennan 


THE  RED  SECTOR  303 

steered  across  their  path  and  the  color  changed  to 
ruby,  the  warning  to  mariners  to  beware  and  go  clear. 

"The  red  sector,"  said  Glennan  to  himself.  "Now 
I  am  going  to  follow  the  edge  of  it  inshore  as  far  as  I 
dare  and  then  out  to  sea  until  it  dims." 

His  motive  was  scarcely  more  than  a  sailor's  in 
stinct.  The  purpose  of  a  shore  light  was  to  indicate 
direction  and  position.  He  was  curious  to  find  out 
for  himself  just  how  accurately  Thorpe's  Island  light 
might  be  used  to  locate  a  particular  point  on  the  chart. 
Cross-bearings  would  be  required,  of  course,  so  as  the 
Golden  Rod  moved  along  the  edge  of  the  red  sector, 
Seaman  Howard  Glennan  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for 
other  lights  which  might  serve  to  form  an  angle  and 
a  line  of  intersection.  He  discovered  two  of  these,  one 
well  inshore,  a  fixed  light  at  the  entrance  to  Clam- 
Shell  Gut,  and  another  ten  miles  out  to  seaward  — 
the  faint  twinkle  of  the  revolving  lenses  that  marked 
the  Sow  and  Pigs. 

Ensign  Ambrose  Walters,  who  had  been  somewhat 
unhappy  since  supper  because  the  deck  insisted  on 
heaving  up  and  down,  spoke  rudely  to  his  acting 
navigator. 

"What  do  you  think  this  is  —  a  cake-walk?  Are 
you  going  to  promenade  up  and  down  that  red  sector 
all  night?" 

"All  done,  sir,"  cheerily  answered  the  sailor.  "I'll 
know  that  light  next  time  I  see  it." 

At  the  end  of  his  watch,  Glennan  penciled  two  tiny 
crosses  on  the  chart  to  mark  the  cross-bearings.  With 
the  parallel  ruler  he  obtained  the  exact  compass  bear- 


304  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

ings  of  the  intersecting  ranges  and  jotted  them  on  a 
scrap  of  paper  which  he  tucked  in  his  blouse.  If  any 
one  should  wish  to  make  unlawful  use  of  Thorpe's 
Island  light  or  the  waters  thereabouts,  there  was  one 
able  seaman  of  the  Naval  Reserve  who  hoped  to  dis 
cover  the  how  and  why  of  it.  He  thought  Captain 
Wesley  Amazeen  would  approve.  At  any  rate,  he  was 
paying  attention  to  trifles  and  keeping  his  weather 
eye  lifted. 

Three  days  later  the  Golden  Rod  returned  to  Spring 
Haven,  and  her  lively  young  bluejackets  were  glad  to 
scamper  ashore  and  be  rid  of  their  cramped  quar 
ters  for  a  brief  respite.  Howard  Glennan  went  to  the 
training  station  on  the  wharf  and  changed  his  clothes 
before  falling  in  for  drill.  On  the  water-front  near  by 
was  the  site  of  an  old  shipyard  whose  buildings  were 
tottering  in  decay.  The  place  was  astir  again,  gangs 
of  laborers  tearing  down  the  sheds  and  shops,  others 
digging  foundation  trenches,  while  the  railroad  spur 
was  filled  with  cars  loaded  with  lumber,  cement,  and 
machinery. 

The  man  in  authority  was  Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline 
who  seemed  to  be  a  man  of  his  word.  He  was  mak 
ing  a  "rush  job"  of  the  new  barracks  for  the  Naval 
Reserve,  but  it  was  haste  without  confusion  or  waste 
motion.  Clad  in  white  flannel,  cool  and  debonair,  he 
halted  to  talk  to  a  foreman  who  answered  with  a  smile, 
or  solved  the  troubles  of  another  group  which  had 
been  delayed  by  a  balky  hoisting  engine.  He  had  the 
knack  of  keeping  a  dozen  tasks  under  way  without 
bluster. 


THE  RED  SECTOR  305 

"I'll  have  to  hand  it  to  him,"  murmured  Glennan. 
"He  delivers  the  goods,  and  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  myself  for  suspecting  him  of  anything  crooked." 

Like  one  who  steers  his  course  by  a  star,  the  able 
seaman  betook  himself  straight  to  the  Winnebassett 
Hotel  when  the  day's  work  was  done.  The  Downes 
family  had  motored  to  Spruce  Inlet  for  a  shore  dinner, 
he  was  informed,  and  expected  to  return  during  the 
evening.  This  was  forlorn  news  for  a  young  man 
whose  hours  of  leave  were  golden,  but  he  concluded 
to  wait,  having  fortified  himself  with  supper  at  the 
bare,  scrubbed  table  of  the  training  station.  An  open 
fire  beckoned  him  into  one  of  the  small  parlors  where 
he  found  an  armchair  and  a  magazine  or  two.  Hav 
ing  lost  sleep  aboard  the  Golden  Rod,  he  was  drowsily 
comfortable  when  Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline  sauntered 
in,  hailed  him  with  genial  courtesy,  and  drew  up  a 
chair. 

"I  saw  your  boat  come  in,"  said  the  engineer. 
"Your  skipper,  Ambrose  Walters,  is  an  acquaintance 
of  mine.  We  met  in  Chicago  last  winter  —  at  the  Uni 
versity  Club.  I  can't  quite  picture  him  as  a  sea-dog." 

"Mr.  Walters  will  learn,"  said  Howard.  "You 
can't  expect  to  find  enough  sailors  to  man  our  Navy. 
The  supply  is  too  small." 

"But  chaps  of  your  sort  ought  to  be  trained  as 
officers,  Glennan.  If  I  can  do  anything  —  a  word  in 
the  right  quarter  sometimes  helps.  I  know  a  lot  of 
people  in  Washington." 

Howard  flushed  and  his  voice  was  emphatic  as  he 
exclaimed; 


306  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Thanks,  but  I'd  rather  go  ahead  under  my  own 
steam.  I  don't  care  to  be  towed.  I  can  wait  until  Mr. 
Walters  recommends  me  for  promotion." 

"The  proper  spirit,"  said  the  engineer,  and  he 
changed  the  subject.  "I  shall  turn  in  rather  early  to 
night.  It's  tiresome  —  this  getting  a  job  under  way 
with  the  labor  supply  all  shot  to  pieces." 

"I  thought  you  were  hustling  things  along  in  great 
shape,  Mr.  Kline,  when  I  reached  port  to-day." 

"Oh,  we  started  something.  I  hoped  to  enjoy  this 
coast  —  run  about  a  bit  in  my  car  —  but  I  am  lashed 
to  the  mast.  I'm  afraid  I  won't  be  able  to  break  out 
of  Spring  Haven  at  all.  I  have  seen  absolutely  nothing 
but  the  road  between  the  hotel  and  the  town." 

Glennan  said  something  about  the  quaint  coast 
wise  villages  which  tourists  found  so  attractive  and 
then  the  conversation  slackened.  The  glowing  logs 
in  the  wide  fireplace  wrought  their  magic  spell.  It  was 
pleasant  to  stare  at  them  in  contented  silence.  Sud 
denly  Howard  Glennan's  reveries  were  disturbed  by 
something  which  caused  him  to  sit  erect,  smother  a 
yawn,  and  steal  an  alert  glance  at  the  abstracted  Mr. 
Kline.  Then  the  nose  of  young  Glennan  sniffed,  very 
cautiously.  His  sense  of  smell  had  been  trained  at  sea 
and  there  were  certain  odors  so  familiar  that  he  could 
identify  them  anywhere. 

This  aroma  was  so  faint,  so  elusive,  that  he  sniffed 
again.  Then  he  rose  from  his  chair  to  poke  the  fire 
and  brushed  Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline  in  passing.  This 
amiable  gentleman  yawned,  remarked  that  he  had 
almost  dropped  off  asleep,  and  bade  his  young  friend 


THE  RED  SECTOR  307 

adieu  for  the  night.  Glennan  lingered  in  the  parlor  a 
little  while  and  then  tramped  the  windy  piazza  until 
an  automobile  drew  up  and  the  Downes  family  dis 
embarked.  The  shore  dinner  had  been  a  bit  too  much 
for  mother  whose  appetite  sometimes  outran  her  dis 
cretion.  She  announced  that  her  husband  was  to  find 
the  hot-water  bottle  and  tuck  her  in  bed  as  soon  as 
the  Lord  would  let  him.  The  loving  daughter  offered 
aid  and  sympathy,  but  was  firmly  repulsed.  Therefore 
she  joined  the  able  seaman,  who  piloted  her  to  a  quiet 
corner  where  the  lights  were  not  too  glaring. 

"You  poor  boy,"  said  she  with  a  caressing  intona 
tion  which  made  his  fond  heart  flutter.  "Waiting 
alone  while  I  frivoled  with  broiled  lobster  and  steamed 
clams.  Had  I  but  known!  And  I  am  simply  crazy  to 
hear  all  about  everything.  Has  the  *  hunch'  come 
true?  I  have  n't  discovered  a  solitary  thing  excepting 
a  lonesome  feeling  when  the  Golden  Rod  goes  to  sea." 

"I  call  that  very  important,"  returned  Howard. 
"The  first  time  you  have  noticed  it,  too.  Has  the 
Kline  person  been  playing  around  with  you?" 

"Now  and  then.  He  doesn't  seem  to  dislike  me. 
But  he  has  been  very  much  tied  up  with  his  work.  He 
comes  up  the  hill  about  six  o'clock  and  goes  to  his 
room  soon  after  dinner." 

"He  told  me  that  he  had  been  nowhere  else,"  the 
young  man  reflected  aloud. 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  it!"  exclaimed  Barbara  Downes. 
"Last  evening,  I  know,  two  of  his  foremen  came  up 
for  a  consultation.  I  was  in  the  office  when  the  clerk 
sent  them  up  to  his  room." 


308  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

The  sailor  smiled  en  joy  ably.  With  the  air  of  a  con 
spirator  he  whispered  in  the  girl's  ear: 

"He  went  out  last  night,  when  he  was  supposed  to 
be  in  bed,  and  drove  his  car  forty  miles." 

Barbara  gasped.  Her  eyes  sparkled  and  she  clutched 
Glennan's  sleeve  as  she  implored: 

"Tell  me,  quick!  But  you  were  off  in  the  Golden 
Rod.  Who  saw  him  leave  the  hotel?" 

"Nobody,  so  far  as  I  know.  But  I  am  ready  to 
swear  that  he  made  a  trip  to  SnelPs  Landing." 

"But,  Howard,  there  is  nothing  at  Snell's  Landing 
except  the  wharf  and  the  sardine  factory." 

"  Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline  was  in  the  sardine  factory, 
Barbara,  and  he  must  have  stayed  some  time.  Do  you 
know  what  that  smell  is?  It  does  n't  stick  to  you  if 
you  just  walk  through  the  place.  But  linger  an  hour 
or  two  and,  whew !  you  surely  do  carry  it  away  with 
you.  My  sister  worked  at  Snell's  Landing  one  summer 
when  she  was  home  from  school,  and  when  she  visited 
us  over  Sunday  —  honestly,  soap  and  water  could  n't 
cure  it  entirely." 

"And  are  you  positive  that  Mr.  Kline  was  fla 
vored  like  a  sardine?  Did  you  meet  him  to-night?" 
giggled  Barbara.  "He  is  so  extremely  natty  and  par 
ticular." 

"It  was  just  a  suggestion  of  a  flavor,"  explained 
Glennan.  "I  did  n't  get  it  until  after  he  threw  away 
his  cigar.  We  were  in  the  little  parlor  with  the  doors 
shut.  He  took  a  bath  and  changed  his  clothes,  no 
doubt,  but  the  factory  fragrance  got  in  his  hair.  That 
is  what  it  did  to  my  sister,  although  she  kept  her  head 


THE  RED  SECTOR  309 

tied  up  while  she  was  at  work.  I  don't  suppose  that 
Mr.  Kline  noticed  it  himself." 

Miss  Downes  gravely  cogitated,  her  chin  in  her 
hand.  The  situation  was  fascinating.  They  must  fol 
low  the  trail  of  the  sardine  no  matter  where  it  led 
them.  She  had  promised  to  stand  watch  and  watch 
with  Seaman  Howard  Glennan,  U.S.N.R. 

"I  verily  believe  you  have  scented  a  clue,"  she 
declared.  "If  he  sneaked  off  to  Snell's  Landing  last 
night,  perhaps  he  will  do  it  again.  But  you  have  to  go 
back  to  the  training  station.  How  can  I  spy  on  him  all 
by  myself?  He  is  very  clever,  you  know." 

"I  have  a  nifty  little  scheme,"  he  replied.  "Come 
with  me,  child,  and  I  will  show  you." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  hotel  garage  which  was 
screened  in  a  grove  of  hemlock  behind  the  hotel.  The 
doors  were  open  and  a  round-shouldered  native  in  rub 
ber  boots  was  washing  Mr.  Franklin  Downes's  big 
touring  car.  Barbara  halted  to  pick  up  a  coat  which 
had  been  left  in  the  tonneau  and  said  to  Howard : 

"That  is  Mr.  Kline's  roadster  —  behind  the  post. 
He  has  invited  me  to  go  out  with  him,  if  he  ever  finds 
the  time." 

The  man  with  the  hose  looked  up  and  grumbled: 

"He's  derned  fussy  about  that  bus  of  his  —  locks 
the  switch  and  keeps  the  key  himself.  Afraid  I'll 
swipe  it  for  a  joy-ride,  hey?" 

"That  is  unjust  —  to  suspect  a  man  with  such  an 
honest  face  as  yours,"  sweetly  observed  Miss  Downes. 
"So  Mr.  Kline  is  quite  certain  that  nobody  else  uses 
his  car?" 


310  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Glennan  strolled  over  to  the  roadster  and  quickly 
read  the  row  of  figures  which  indicated  the  total  mile 
age  on  the  speedometer  dial.  This  was  all  he  cared  to 
know.  It  was  the  purpose  of  his  visit  to  the  garage. 
While  they  were  returning  to  the  hotel  he  said  to 
Barbara : 

"Let  me  write  it  down  for  you  —  four-seven-three- 
six.  When  you  come  downstairs  in  the  morning  —  and 
please  make  it  as  early  as  you  can  —  just  run  out  to 
the  garage  and  take  a  slant  at  the  mileage.  If  it  reads 
forty  miles  higher,  then  you  will  know  that  Mr.  Guy 
Webber  Kline  has  been  joy-riding  himself,  and  Snell's 
Landing  is  the  one  best  bet." 

"And  shall  I  telephone  you,  Howard,  in  guarded 
language?"  asked  the  girl,  endeavoring  to  be  calm 
and  collected.  "Can't  we  devise  some  kind  of  a 
code?" 

"No,  it  won't  do  to  sound  mysterious  when  you 
call  up  the  naval  station.  Merely  tell  me  that  it  was  a 
fine  night  for  a  ride  if  you  find  that  there  was  some 
thing  doing." 

"And  if  I  actually  discover  the  evidence,  can  I  see 
you  to-morrow  to  discuss  what  we  shall  do  next?" 

"Of  course.  I  shall  be  on  street  patrol  duty  in  the 
afternoon,"  answered  the  bluejacket.  "Twirling  a 
club  and  seeing  that  my  brother  gobs  mind  their 
manners.  If  you  should  happen  to  drift  along  India 
Street  about  four  o'clock  we  might  exchange  a  few 
greetings  and  salutations." 

"And  you  will  be  running  no  risk  of  punishment 
for  neglect  of  duty,  Howard?" 


THE  RED  SECTOR  311 

"I  should  be  shirking  my  first  duty  if  I  neglected 
you,"  he  said  with  a  twinkle. 

A  bugle  sounded  clear  and  plaintive  from  the  ware 
houses  down  beside  the  river  and  the  able  seaman 
sprinted  away  at  top  speed,  waving  his  cap  as  he 
turned  to  find  the  path  which  descended  to  the  beach. 
To  be  logged  for  overstaying  his  liberty  would  subject 
him  to  a  severe  lecture  from  Miss  Barbara  Downes 
who  was  even  more  of  a  martinet  than  Ensign 
Ambrose  Walters. 

At  seven  o'clock  next  morning  a  yeoman  bawled 
Glennan's  name  from  the  executive's  office  and  curtly 
informed  him  that  a  dame  wanted  him  on  the  'phone. 
Once  was  all  right,  but  he  must  n't  make  a  habit  of 
it.  Save  the  chatter  until  you  could  spill  it  into  her  ear 
direct,  advised  the  conscientious  yeoman.  Glennan 
turned  crimson,  was  jeered  by  the  ribald  comrades 
of  his  own  division,  and  hastened  to  close  the  door 
of  the  booth  behind  him. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Glennan,"  spoke  the  darling 
accents  of  Miss  Downes,  who  seemed  to  be  laboring 
under  a  stress  of  excitement.  "It  —  it  was  a  perfectly 
splendid  night  for  motoring.  I  drove  forty-one  and 
three  tenths  miles.  What's  that?  Yes,  he  did  — I 
mean  —  I  did,  of  course,  and  will  you  be  on  India 
Street  at  four  o'clock,  surely?  I  have  an  inspiration 
—  simply  gorgeous!  Good-bye." 

Glennan  retreated  from  the  booth,  mopped  his 
brow,  and  almost  jumped  out  of  his  canvas  gaiters 
when  the  yeoman  growled  at  a  stripling  recruit  who 
stood  rigidly  at  attention  beside  the  desk: 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


"Sardines,  you  poor  simp.  Sardines.  Get  me?  This 
order  calls  for  six  cases  of  'em,  and  you  lugged  four 
boxes  of  pickled  tongues  aboard  the  ship.  Can't  you 
read?" 

Recovering  from  this  nervous  shock,  Glennan  was 
about  to  report  for  general  inspection  when  a  friend 
offered  him  a  copy  of  the  Spring  Haven  Beacon  with 
the  latest  news  of  the  war.  There  was  a  lull  on  the 
fighting  fronts  and  no  reports  of  naval  activity  in  the 
war  zone,  so  he  turned  to  the  local  items.  Hastily 
running  his  eye  down  the  columns  he  came  to  this 
paragraph  which  caused  him  to  halt  in  his  tracks  and 
forget  the  inspecting  officer: 

NEW  YORK  CAPITAL  ACQUIRES  COAST 
FISHERIES 

A  Maine  charter  has  been  granted  to  a  million-dollar  cor 
poration  which  will  do  business  under  the  name  of  "The 
Eastern  Fisheries  Company."  It  is  proposed  to  combine 
several  of  the  sardine  canning  factories  under  one  manage 
ment  in  order  to  install  more  efficient  methods  and  to  shift 
labor  as  it  may  be  needed.  For  the  last  two  seasons  the  sar 
dine  plants  of  the  Maine  coast  have  earned  scanty  profits 
and  at  least  two  of  them  have  been  shut  down  indefinitely. 
It  is  probable  that  the  supply  of  Norwegian  and  French 
sardines  will  be  cut  off  during  the  war  and  the  prices  of  the 
domestic  product  will  sharply  advance.  The  factory  at 
Snell's  Landing  has  started  up  under  the  new  manage 
ment  with  a  fair  run  of  fish  reported.  New  York  money  and 
enterprise  are  behind  this  company  which  deserves  every 
success. 

Howard  Glennan's  first  conclusion  was  that  Mr. 
Guy  Webber  Kline  had  been  called  into  consultation 


THE  RED  SECTOR  313 

by  the  new  management.  Perhaps  they  intended  re 
building  the  cannery  at  Snell's  Landing  or  erecting  a 
better  plant.  This  was  plausible,  and  yet  it  seemed 
to  have  a  flaw.  The  construction  engineer  would  not 
be  making  these  trips  in  the  dead  of  night  nor  would 
he  cover  his  tracks  by  lying  about  it.  He  had  declared 
that  his  work  in  Spring  Haven  prevented  him  from 
leaving  town  in  any  direction,  even  to  motor  along 
the  shore.  And  he  had  driven  his  roadster  forty  miles 
on  two  successive  nights.  In  Howard  Glennan's  opin 
ion  the  behavior  of  Mr.  Guy  Webber  Kline  was  by 
no  means  as  clear  as  sunlight. 

It  was  a  long,  long  day  until  four  o'clock  when 
Glennan  stood  at  a  corner  of  India  Street,  swinging 
his  short  truncheon  and  paying  little  heed  to  the 
Spring  Haven  girls  who  passed  in  winsome  procession. 
They  appeared  to  have  errands  of  importance,  and 
it  was  noteworthy  that  the  streets  near  the  water 
front  had  become  amazingly  popular  with  the  arrival 
of  the  spruce  young  bluejackets  of  the  coast  patrol 
and  the  training  station. 

Miss  Barbara  Downes  was  so  very  different  from 
all  other  girls,  of  course,  that  Glennan  espied  her  as 
soon  as  she  rounded  a  bend  of  the  ancient  thorough 
fare.  Fearful  of  interfering  with  his  duty,  she  ap 
proached  with  some  trepidation.  When  on  patrol  he 
suggested  to  her  law  and  order  and  court-martials 
and  what-not.  He  might  be  capable  even  of  placing 
her  under  arrest.  His  beaming  face  was  reassuring, 
however,  and  he  wheeled  to  walk  abreast  of  her. 
There  was  a  quieter  stretch  beyond,  where  India 


314  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Street  opened  into  a  square,  and  she  waited  until  this 
refuge  was  gained  before  she  exclaimed: 

"Howard  Glennan,  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  and 
you  must  not  try  to  argue  me  out  of  it !  Have  you  seen 
the  morning  paper?  I  have  an  intuition  that  that  Mr. 
Kline  and  the  new  owners  of  the  sardine  factory  at 
Snell's  Landing  are  hatching  something." 

"That  sounds  like  Cap'n  Wesley  Amazeen," 
laughed  the  sailor.  "You  can  smell  trouble  before  it 
happens." 

"So  can  you,"  she  retorted,  with  an  air  of  pride. 
"That  is  precisely  what  you  did  in  the  little  parlor 
at  the  hotel.  Now,  you  are  tied  hand  and  foot  by  the 
Navy  routine  and  you  will  have  to  go  to  sea  in  the 
Golden  Rod.  Our  suspicions  are  too  flimsy  to  be  re 
ported  to  your  officers.  You  and  I  must  manage  this 
affair  between  us,  somehow,  and  I  have  determined 
to  apply  for  a  position  in  that  sardine  factory." 

Glennan's  dismay  made  him  speechless,  but  a  Navy 
man  should  be  quick  to  act  in  any  emergency,  and 
he  rallied  to  say,  with  masterful  authority: 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Miss  Downes. 
Your  fond  parents  would  n't  stand  for  it.  And  I  am 
very  sure  that  I  won't." 

The  voice  of  Barbara  was  no  less  resolute  as  she 
replied : 

"I  shall  say  nothing  to  the  fond  but  interfering 
parents.  A  school  friend  of  mine,  Mary  Betts,  has  a 
cottage  on  an  island  near  Snell's  Landing.  She  has 
been  begging  me  to  visit  her.  In  war  one  has  to  resort 
to  strategy." 


THE  RED  SECTOR  315 

"But  a  sardine  factory  is  no  place  for  you,"  per 
sisted  the  young  man;  "and  there's  the  risk  of  be 
ing  caught  at  it  by  this  Guy  Webber  Kline  or  his 
pals." 

"If  your  sister  could  do  it,  I  guess  I  can  survive. 
And  Mr.  Kline  will  not  come  in  the  daytime.  It  is 
quite  heroic  of  me,  for  the  idea  of  —  of  suggesting 
a  sardine  —  of  having  my  hair  perfumed  with  it,  is 
positively  frightful." 

"Well,  it's  not  a  permanent  affliction  and  a  sham 
poo  helps  some,"  consoled  Glennan.  "I  can't  compel 
obedience,  but  for  Heaven's  sake  forget  it.  Let  me 
talk  it  over  with  you  —  whew!  here  comes  Ensign 
Ambrose  Walters.  I'm  very  sorry,  but  you  rmd  better 
beat  it.  He  is  fussy  at  times." 

Miss  Downes  departed  hastily  as  if  threatened  by 
the  iron  hand  of  naval  discipline.  The  tall  ensign 
halted  as  the  able  seaman  smartly  saluted  and  a  smile 
was  on  the  serious  visage  as  he  dryly  remarked: 

"The  ladies  lose  their  way,  I  presume,  Glennan, 
and  stop  to  inquire  the  name  of  the  street.  If  they 
annoy  you  I'll  detail  a  bodyguard." 

"Yes,  sir.  Thank  you,"  soberly  replied  the  sailor. 
"  They  can't  help  showing  a  friendly  spirit  in  a  man's 
own  town." 

"Um-m,  sorry  to  tear  you  away  from  the  social 
whirl,  but  the  ship  is  ordered  to  sea  to-night.  The 
Mermaid  has  broken  down  and  we  shall  have  to  make 
her  trip  as  an  extra  run.  Report  aboard  at  seven 
o'clock." 

"Aye,  sir.  That  means  a  week  at  sea." 


316  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Something  like  it.  I  shall  take  a  smaller  crew  than 
usual  so  as  to  give  us  more  elbow-room." 

This  cruise  of  the  Golden  Rod  turned  out  to  be  singu 
larly  uneventful,  and  she  was  homeward  bound,  five 
days  later,  when  Ensign  Walters  was  pained  to  dis 
cover  that  a  leak  in  the  gasoline  tank  had  flooded  the 
bilges  and  threatened  to  blow  his  fearless  man-of-war 
to  kingdom  come.  The  inflammable  stuff  was  pumped 
overside  with  gingerly  caution  and  the  machinist's 
mate  managed  to  find  and  plug  the  hole  where  the 
tank  had  rusted.  There  was  an  unexpected  shortage 
of  fuel,  however,  and  no  port  convenient  for  taking 
on  a  supply.  The  commander  scowled  at  the  chart 
and  said  to  the  man  at  the  wheel: 

"We  can't  possibly  fetch  Spring  Haven,  and  these 
islands  hereabouts  are  not  likely  to  have  fuel  to  sell 
by  the  barrel.  It  means  a  straight  run  for  the  coast 
and  the  nearest  town." 

"There  is  Jonesboro,  but  we  can't  get  into  the 
wharf  at  low  water,  sir,"  suggested  Howard  Glennan. 
His  heart  beat  faster  as  he  glanced  at  the  chart  and 
added :  "  Snell's  Landing  is  only  six  miles  farther  than 
Jonesboro  and  you  are  sure  to  find  plenty  of  gas.  A 
tank  barge  will  come  alongside  and  connect  a  hose." 

"Make  it  Snell's  Landing,  then,  and  cut  the  cor 
ners,  before  the  motors  lie  down  and  die." 

The  Golden  Rod  kicked  along  at  ten  knots  with  no 
disquieting  symptoms  until  she  was  nearing  the  last 
point  of  land  beyond  which  lay  the  snug  harbor  of 
Snell's  Landing.  Then  the  speed  slackened,  there  was 
a  series  of  hectic  "pop-pops"  in  the  engine-room,  and 


THE  RED  SECTOR  317 

the  machinist's  mate  poked  his  head  through  the 
hatch  to  announce  that  she  'd  sucked  up  the  last  drop 
of  juice  and  nobody  ought  to  expect  her  to  run  with 
out  it.  Mr.  Walters  rubbed  his  nose,  swore  in  a  sub 
dued,  dignified  manner,  and  told  the  boatswain's 
mate  to  let  go  the  anchor.  It  was  obvious  that  a  boat 
could  be  lowered  and  sent  in  to  Snell's  Landing  to 
bring  back  enough  gasoline  in  cans  to  carry  the  vessel 
thither.  This  the  ensign  promptly  decided  to  do,  and 
Howard  Glennan  was  so  eager  to  be  selected  as  one 
of  the  boat's  crew  that  he  was  fairly  under  foot.  After 
colliding  with  him  twice,  Mr.  Walters  snorted: 

"Gangway  there,  or  I'll  tie  a  fender  around  your 
neck!  Jump  in  and  take  an  oar.  You  have  been  in  the 
port  before  and  know  your  way  about." 

The  boatswain's  mate  went  in  charge.  He  was  a 
relic  of  the  old  Navy,  ruddy  and  bald  and  fat,  too 
near  the  retiring  age  to  be  sent  overseas,  but  a  useful 
man  for  training  young  recruits.  It  was  his  duty,  said 
he,  to  put  the  fear  of  God  in  'em,  and  cure  'em  of  the 
sufferin'  delusion  that  they  knew  it  all.  To  be  con 
demned  to  such  a  bathtub  as  the  Golden  Rod  —  he, 
Mike  Fessenden,  who. had  cruised  around  the  globe 
in  a  battle-wagon  —  was  galling  to  the  soul,  but  he 
endured  it  for  the  glory  and  honor  of  the  Service.  He 
was  fond  of  young  Glennan  because  he  was  a  sailor 
born,  not  one  of  those  ready-made  gobs  from  the  corn 
belt  who  did  n't  know  a  serving-mallet  from  a  mar 
tingale. 

Grumbling  at  the  ragged  oarsmanship,  old  Mike 
steered  the  boat  clear  of  the  surf  on  the  point  and 


318  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

rounded  a  red  buoy.  The  harbor  disclosed  itself  as  a 
basin  almost  rimmed  by  rocky  slopes,  a  tidal  pool 
sheltered  from  the  sea  with  a  channel  deep  and  nar 
row  winding  to  the  weedy  wharves.  Fishing  sloops 
and  power  dories  jostled  each  other  or  were  hauled 
out  on  the  strip  of  white  beach  in  front  of  a  few  small 
dwellings,  gray,  low-roofed,  and  wind-blown.  From 
the  village,  a  mile  inland,  the  white  spire  of  a  New 
England  meeting-house  lifted  austerely  against  the 
sky. 

Built  out  over  the  water  was  the  sardine  cannery,  a 
long  shed  with  many  open  windows.  Moored  beside 
the  pier  at  the  outer  end  of  the  shed  were  two  small 
steamers,  stanch  vessels  with  a  bold  sheer,  the  brown 
nets  neatly  piled  on  deck.  They  had  come  in  with 
cargoes  of  fish,  for  the  big  dippers  were  scooping  them 
out  of  the  holds  and  dumping  them  into  the  cars  at 
the  cannery  door. 

The  Navy  boat's  crew  pulled  over  to  the  anchored 
hulk  of  a  schooner  which  displayed  a  signboard, 
"Gasoline,"  and  left  the  cans  to  be  filled.  Mike  Fes- 
senden  was  reminded  that  the  cook  had  besought  him 
to  find  some  fresh  haddock  for  supper,  and  perhaps 
there  was  a  drop  of  cider  ashore  which  it  was  not  un 
lawful  to  sell  to  a  man  in  uniform.  Therefore  the  boat 
moved  toward  the  nearest  wharf,  where  it  was  left  in 
charge  of  a  freckled  apprentice  seaman  whom  Mike 
heartily  disliked  and  never  favored  if  it  could  be 
helped. 

"I  will  have  a  squint  at  the  sardine  shop,  for  I  have 
never  investigated  one  of  'em  meself,"  observed  the 


THE  RED  SECTOR  319 

boatswain's  mate.  "  'Tis  a  crime  to  torment  an 
honest  man  with  the  smell  of  'em,  for  they  belong 
with  a  plate  of  cheese,  a  loaf  of  rye  bread,  and  a  dozen 
bottles  of  cold  beer  —  'specially  the  beer." 

Howard  Glennan  joined  him  while  the  others  ex 
plored  the  beach.  The  canning  shed  was  clean  and 
airy,  but  richly  flavored.  The  rows  of  machines  were 
tended  by  women  who  filled  and  sealed  the  cans  with 
magical  speed  and  dexterity.  They  seemed  to  flow  in 
shining  torrents  to  the  bins  in  which  they  were 
stacked,  labeled,  and  boxed.  These  ingenious  proc 
esses  had  no  interest,  however,  for  a  trim  young  able 
seaman,  who  had  descried  at  a  table  in  one  of  the 
aisles  a  slender,  energetic  girl  wearing  a  white  cap 
and  a  long  oilcloth  apron.  Glennan  hesitated  to  dis 
close  his  presence  to  Barbara  Dowries,  yet  he  was 
tremendously  anxious  to  learn  the  story  of  her  cour 
ageous  adventure.  It  was  Mike  Fessenden  who  de 
cided  the  matter.  Mistaking  the  lad's  motive  for 
hanging  back,  he  hoarsely  whispered: 

"Bashful,  is  it?  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Come  along 
now.  We  will  give  'em  a  treat.  Nice  girls  they  are  and 
good-lookers  amongst  'em.  How  tender  they  are  to 
the  little  fishes  boiled  in  oil.  Pipe  the  black-eyed  one 
—  I  saw  you  takin'  a  slant  at  her  just  now  —  the  girl 
by  the  fifth  window  countin'  from  this  end.  A  flower 
she  is,  and  what  an  elegant  air  she  has.  I  will  ask  her 
how  the  sardines  do  be  feelin'  to-day." 

"Oh,  forget  it,  Mike.  We  must  be  getting  back  to 
the  boat,"  earnestly  objected  the  seaman. 

The  amiable  argument  attracted  attention.  The 


320  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

sight  of  the  Navy  uniform  was  thrilling.  The  girls 
clapped  their  hands  and  waved  handkerchiefs.  Bar 
bara  Downes  turned  from  her  table,  saw  Glennan  in 
the  doorway,  and  her  lovely  color  glowed  more  vivid 
as  a  recognition  signal.  She  would  have  resumed  her 
task,  but  just  then  the  factory  whistle  blew,  the  hum  of 
machinery  ceased,  and  the  girls  were  given  breathing 
spell  until  the  next  run  of  fish  should  come  from  the 
cooking  kettles.  Gallant  old  Mike  Fessenden  lost  not  a 
moment,  and  was  rattling  off  compliments  to  half  a 
dozen  girls  who  flocked  to  find  the  breeze  on  the  wharf. 

Barbara  Downes  slipped  out  alone,  through  a  side 
door,  and  sought  the  road  which  rambled  off  inland. 
Howard  Glennan  ran  to  overtake  her  while  the  boat 
swain's  mate,  a  man  of  vast  experience,  sagely  shook 
his  head  and  concluded  that  these  young  people 
should  be  left  to  themselves  for  a  minute  or  so.  He 
himself  would  seek  those  fresh  haddock  for  supper 
and  so  acquire  merit  with  the  ship's  cook. 

"Well,  I  disobeyed  your  orders,  Howard!"  cried 
Barbara  Downes,  with  such  a  happy  sigh  of  relief  at 
this  glimpse  of  her  friend  and  partner.  "And  I  don't 
mind  the  work  at  all.  Where  is  the  Golden  Rod  and 
what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"The  frigate  is  in  the  offing  and  I'm  ashore  on  an 
errand,"  he  explained.  "Great  luck!  Sure  your  game 
is  safe,  are  you?  I  have  lost  a  lot  of  sleep  worrying 
about  you." 

"I  can  fancy  you  tossing  in  your  hammock,  How 
ard  —  for  about  six  minutes  after  you  turn  in  —  a 
strong  man's  anguish,  and  all  that.  Please  don't  pile 


THE  RED  SECTOR 


it  on.  I  presume  I  must  talk  in  a  hurry  or  you  will  be 
stranded  ashore  as  a  deserter.  Oh,  I  don't  know  where 
to  begin." 

"  Then  you  have  been  finding  out  a  few  things?" 

"Guessing,  mostly.  This  sardine  factory  has  a  new 
manager,  and  he  is  a  German,  I  am  quite  positive, 
although  his  name  is  Boardman.  He  urges  the  girls 
to  buy  Liberty  bonds  and  is  violently  loyal,  to  hear 
him  tell  it,  but  there  is  a  trace  of  an  accent,  a  sug 
gestion  in  his  manner.  I  spent  a  year  in  Leipsic  and 
perhaps  I  am  more  sensitive  to  such  impressions." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Glennan.  "And  have  you 
been  able  to  watch  Kline  at  all?" 

"I  stole  out  at  night,  twice,  and  rowed  in  a  skiff, 
very  quietly,  to  the  factory  pier.  Mr.  Kline  came 
once,  for  I  saw  a  car  in  the  lane  by  the  little  beach, 
but  I  did  n't  dare  go  ashore." 

"And  he  met  this  Boardman  swine,  of  course?" 

"I  think  so,  Howard.  I  saw  two  men  go  aboard  one 
of  the  sardine  steamers.  They  may  have  belonged  to 
the  crew,  but  it  was  after  midnight  and  perhaps  Mr. 
Kline  was  one  of  them.  There  is  something  else,  but 
I  am  so  afraid  you  will  be  rash  and  get  in  trouble  —  " 

"That's  what  the  Navy  is  for  —  to  hunt  trouble," 
was  the  logical  statement  of  Seaman  Glennan. 

"But  this  is  rather  personal,"  declared  Barbara, 
with  some  reluctance.  "The  captain  of  the  larger  sar 
dine  boat  is  an  impossible  person.  We  all  dislike  him. 
He  is  a  Dane,  I  believe,  or  so  he  says.  His  vanity  is 
absurd  —  no  woman  can  resist  him  and  all  that  — 
and  he  has  been  annoying  the  girls  in  the  factory." 


SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 


"Has  he  bothered  you?"  fiercely  demanded  her 
champion. 

"Not  seriously,  but  he  has  said  some  silly  things  to 
me,  and  hangs  about  and  stares.  And  he  insisted  on 
walking  with  me  once  or  twice,  but  now  I  wait  for 
some  of  the  other  girls.  It  does  no  good  to  complain 
to  the  manager.  They  are  on  intimate  terms." 

"What  does  he  look  like?"  inquired  Glennan  in 
tones  meant  to  be  calm. 

"He  is  a  big,  bullying  man  with  a  reddish  mustache 
and  a  deep  voice.  He  walks  with  a  swagger,  and  glow 
ers  at  his  men.  They  seem  to  be  in  terror  of  him.  His 
name  is  Captain  Axel  Johnson.  None  of  the  natives 
seem  to  know  much  about  him." 

"Another  bad  egg  in  the  basket!"  cried  Glennan. 
"Honestly,  Barbara,  this  is  no  place  for  you.  Chuck 
it  and  go  back  to  Spring  Haven,  won't  you?  You  have 
done  enough.  I'll  have  this  precious  outfit  watched." 

She  was  gazing,  not  at  him,  but  at  the  road  toward 
the  village,  and  her  eyes  were  startled  and  a  little 
frightened.  Glennan  turned  and  saw  approaching  a 
burly  figure  which  he  assumed  to  be  the  truculent 
Captain  Axel  Johnson  of  the  sardine  boat.  Barbara 
laid  a  hand  upon  her  young  sailor's  sleeve  as  though 
to  warn  and  restrain  him.  With  florid  gallantry  the 
Danish  mariner  swept  his  hat  from  his  head  as  he 
said: 

"Ah,  the  beautiful  Miss  Downes!  Good-afternoon, 
and  a  fair  slant  of  weather  for  me  because  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  escorting  you  to  the  boarding-house." 

Glennan  was  ignored.  He  seemed  boyish  and  slight 


THE  RED  SECTOR  323 

beside  this  big-boned,  hard-fisted  seafarer,  but  he 
instantly  cleared  for  action.  The  odds  had  never 
daunted  a  Glennan.  Stepping  briskly  between  the 
girl  and  Captain  Axel  Johnson,  he  confronted  the 
latter  as  he  exclaimed: 

"Miss  Downes  is  with  me  and  you  are  a  nuisance 
to  both  of  us,  you  lubberly  square-head!  And  you 
are  to  keep  clear  from  now  on,  understand?" 

The  Dane  laughed  with  a  tolerant  good-humor  that 
was  insulting  beyond  words.  He  had  been  drinking. 
The  evidence  was  unmistakable.  Gripping  Glennan's 
shoulder  with  a  hard,  hairy  hand,  he  thrust  him  to 
one  side  and  said: 

"Because  he  wears  Navy  clothes,  the  boy  talks  big 
words,  eh,  Miss  Downes?  He  must  not  meddle  with 
a  man's  business.  I  will  have  to  learn  him.  Nobody 
starts  arguments  with  Captain  Axel  Johnson." 

This  declaration  was  unwarranted  by  the  facts,  for 
he  had  undoubtedly  started  something.  Young  Glen- 
nan  may  not  have  forgotten  those  lectures  on  the 
theory  and  practice  of  naval  strategy  as  delivered  by 
Ensign  Ambrose  Walters.  At  any  rate,  he  was  quick 
to  size  up  the  situation.  He  was  no  pugilist  to  whip  a 
man  far  outmatching  him  in  weight,  strength,  and 
fighting  experience,  and  he  sensibly  foresaw  a  hope 
less  encounter,  but  he  had  no  intention  of  letting  this 
domineering  brute  go  unpunished.  Against  an  enemy 
with  a  heavier  broadside,  the  trick  was  to  board  him 
if  possible. 

A  quick  glance  and  the  angry  bluejacket  spied  a 
three-foot  bit  of  scantling  by  the  roadside.  He  leaped 


324  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

. 1 

for  it  like  a  cat  and  was  dancing  back  while  Captain 
Axel  Johnson  still  laughed  at  him.  The  contemptuous 
grin  faded  swiftly.  It  gave  way  to  a  look  of  consterna 
tion  as  Glennan  swung  his  bludgeon.  There  was  no 
chance  to  parry  or  dodge.  The  scantling  smote  the 
swaggering  mariner  just  above  the  right  ear  and  the 
sound  was  like  the  crack  of  a  pistol.  He  sat  down 
abruptly,  a  hand  to  his  head,  and  the  blood  began  to 
trickle  through  his  fingers.  The  scantling  flew  into 
several  pieces,  but  Glennan  had  no  more  need  of  it. 

Poor  Barbara  Downes  wrung  her  hands  and  wailed, 
but  not  in  sympathy  for  the  fallen  bully: 

"Oh,  Howard,  what  if  you  have  fractured  his  skull 
and  killed  him?  Will  they  hang  you  to  the  yard-arm?  " 

" Crack  that  head?  It's  solid  bone  above  the  ears! " 
very  cheerily  answered  Howard  Glennan.  "Nothing 
but  a  belaying  pin  could  dent  it.  Now  if  the  beauti 
ful  Miss  Downes  will  permit  me  to  escort  her,  we'll 
get  under  way.  Farewell,  Captain  Axel  Johnson.  Big 
words  are  unhealthy  for  you.  Better  cut  'em  out." 

The  terrible  Dane  still  sat  in  the  road  and  glared 
with  a  dazed  expression.  It  was  to  be  inferred  that  his 
wits  had  been  considerably  scrambled.  He  was  ten 
derly  caressing  the  welt  above  the  right  ear  which, 
no  doubt,  seemed  to  have  the  dimensions  of  a  co- 
coanut.  It  was  Seaman  Howard  Glennan  who  now 
walked  with  a  bit  of  a  swagger  and  he  had  offered  his 
arm  to  the  lovely  creature  at  his  side.  There  came  to 
their  ears  the  shrill,  petulant  summons  of  a  boat 
swain's  pipe,  and  the  dauntless  bluejacket  exclaimed, 
in  something  like  dismay: 


THE  RED  SECTOR  325 

"Good  gracious,  that's  old  Mike  Fessenden  and 
I've  kept  the  boat  waiting!" 

"Then  there  is  one  man  in  the  world  whom  you 
are  afraid  of?"  was  Barbara's  flattering  comment. 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  He  will  skin  me  alive. 
But  I  can't  leave  you  here,  Barbara,  and  you  are  not 
to  work  another  day  in  the  sardine  dump." 

"Because  of  Captain  Axel  Johnson,  Howard?" 

"Precisely.  He  is  the  sort  of  dog  that  will  try  to  get 
square.  Are  you  really  staying  in  a  village  boarding- 
house?" 

"Yes,  for  a  few  days,  so  as  to  stand  watch  and 
watch  with  you,  as  I  promised.  But  I  can  go  out  to 
the  island  to-night  and  stay  with  my  friend  Mary 
Betts.  And  you  don't  have  to  worry  another  minute 
about  me,  for  the  Betts  launch  is  at  Snell's  Landing 
right  now.  I  saw  it  come  into  the  harbor.  Leave  me 
at  the  wharf  as  we  go  by  and  I  will  jump  into  the 
launch." 

"Fine  and  dandy,"  replied  Glennan  as  they  has 
tened  to  the  beach.  "And  there  will  be  something  do 
ing  to-night.  The  Golden  Rod  is  handy,  and  I  have 
decided  to  put  the  proposition  up  to  Mr.  Walters, 
my  commanding  officer." 

"It  does  n't  look  as  flimsy  as  it  did,  Howard?"  she 
queried  anxiously.  "Do  you  really  think  I  have  been 
of  service?" 

"You  have  discovered  that  this  bunch  of  outlaws 
needs  serious  attention,"  declared  he.  "And  the  Navy 
is  due  to  draw  cards." 

Their  parting  was  accelerated  by  the  stentorian 


326  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

voice  of  old  Mike  Fessenden  who  had  returned  to  his 
boat.  He  conveyed  the  impression  to  the  harbor-side 
that  young  Glennan  was  a  loafing  swab  who  should 
be  strung  up  by  the  thumbs.  To  Barbara  Downes  this 
fat  tyrant  of  a  boatswain's  mate  seemed  almost  as 
formidable  as  Captain  Axel  Johnson,  and  she  feared 
that  Howard  had  jumped  from  the  frying-pan  into 
the  fire,  but  he  carelessly  assured  her  that  Mike's 
bark  was  worse  than  his  bite  and  he  was  a  bully  old 
barnacle.  She  was  safely  aboard  the  launch  a  moment 
later,  and  Glennan  saw  it  shove  off  before  the  Golden 
Rod's  boat  had  passed  beyond  the  point. 

He  found  Ensign  Walters  fidgeting  on  deck  and 
anxious  to  get  the  ship  under  way,  but  after  a  brief 
interview  the  commander  invited  the  able  seaman 
into  his  cabin  and  bolted  the  door.  They  talked  at 
length  and  the  Golden  Rod  still  rode  at  anchor.  The 
legal  mind  of  the  ensign  was  accustomed  to  weigh 
evidence  with  a  shrewd  and  cautious  deliberation,  but 
in  this  instance  he  was  also  a  fighting  sailor.  Glennan 's 
story  won  his  respectful  attention.  He  interrupted  to 
say: 

"This  Guy  Webber  Kline  is  a  smooth  bird  and  I 
doubt  if  we  can  implicate  him.  That  is  n't  really  our 
business.  The  Department  of  Justice  will  attend  to 
his  case.  But  this  lot  of  thugs  at  SnelFs  Landing  - 
well,  I  think  we  had  better  send  an  armed  boat 
ashore  to-night." 

"To  reconnoiter,  sir?"  eagerly  exclaimed  Glennan. 
"The  Golden  Rod  can  hide  behind  one  of  the  islands. 
She  need  not  run  in  at  all.  We  have  gasoline  enough 


THE  RED  SECTOR  327 

to  run  to  Jonesboro  this  afternoon  and  fill  the  tanks. 
Then  we  can  loaf  back  this  way  after  dark." 

"The  idea,  precisely.  Did  you  hit  this  Captain 
Axel  Johnson  hard  enough  to  put  him  out  of  commis 
sion?  Will  he  be  on  the  job  to-night,  do  you  think?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  jolted  him  some,  but  if  there's  business 
on  hand  he  will  be  on  deck.  The  scantling  busted 
when  it  landed  on  his  bean,  but  I  did  n't  have  time 
to  look  for  anything  solider  to  soak  him  with." 

"You  seemed  to  have  behaved  with  skill  and 
promptness  in  the  face  of  a  superior  force,"  replied 
the  ensign,  with  his  dry  smile.  "Was  there  anything 
to  indicate  that  his  steamer  might  proceed  to  sea 
to-night?" 

"She  has  had  a  four  days'  lay  in  port,  sir,  and  the 
sardine  works  need  more  fish.  One  of  the  boys  in  our 
boat  scraped  acquaintance  with  the  engineer  who 
told  him  they  put  all  the  coal  and  stores  aboard." 

"And  your  opinion  is  that  this  hard  nut  of  a  Dan 
ish  skipper  and  the  cannery  manager,  Boardman,  are 
taking  orders  from  Guy  Webber  Kline?" 

"All  tarred  with  the  same  brush,  sir.  Axel  Johnson 
a  Dane?  Not  much.  I'll  bet  a  month's  pay  that  he 
hails  from  over  the  Rhine." 

"The  bet  sounds  good  to  me,"  said  Ensign  Walters. 
"I  shall  take  charge  of  the  landing  party  to-night  and 
leave  the  ship  with  the  boatswain's  mate.  You  had 
better  go  along  with  me  as  a  guide." 

"We  can  go  ashore  at  the  point,"  suggested  Glen- 
nan,  "and  leave  the  boat  there.  I  know  the  path 
through  the  pines.  If  Kline  comes  for  a  conference  he 


328  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

will  turn  up  around  midnight.  They  will  meet  him 
in  the  factory  or  aboard  Axel  Johnson's  steamer." 

"Probably.  We  had  better  arrive  too  soon  than  too 
late.  I  shall  call  the  boat  away  at  ten  o'clock." 

Unseen  from  Snell's  Landing,  the  Golden  Rod  pres 
ently  moved  down  the  coast  at  easy  speed  and  slipped 
into  the  small  bay  at  Jonesboro.  Ensign  Walters 
strolled  ashore  and  found  the  telephone  operator  on 
duty  in  the  local  exchange.  In  response  to  his  courte 
ous  instructions  that  zealously  loyal  young  woman 
assured  him  that  no  messages  indicating  the  move 
ments  of  the  Golden  Rod  would  be  allowed  to  go 
through  to  Snell's  Landing  or  Spring  Haven.  When 
he  returned  to  his  dashing  man-of-war,  Mike  Fessen- 
den  was  ready  to  cast  off  and  stand  out  to  sea. 

Besides  the  ensign  and  Howard  Glennan,  there 
were  four  seamen  in  the  boat  which  stole  shoreward 
at  ten  o'clock.  The  night  was  quite  dark  with  an  over 
cast  sky  and  a  light  breeze.  The  Golden  Rod  was  or 
dered  to  lie  close  to  the  nearest  island  until  midnight, 
with  all  lights  screened,  and  then  return  to  the  point. 
In  the  event  of  trouble  ashore,  a  red  rocket  would  be 
the  landing  party's  signal  for  reinforcements  and  the 
vessel  would  then  make  for  the  harbor.  You  may  be 
sure  that  all  these  fine  young  sailors  were  thrilled  with 
honest  delight  when  cutlasses  and  pistols  were  actu 
ally  served  out. 

Glennan  led  the  boat's  crew  over  the  boulders  and 
along  the  gloomy  path  which  climbed  the  hills  to 
Snell's  Landing.  They  went  warily,  but  no  precau 
tions  had  been  taken  against  such  a  visit  as  this.  From 


THE  RED  SECTOR  329 

the  slope  which  overlooked  the  tidal  basin  they  saw 
no  lights  in  the  fishermen's  cottages  by  the  strip  of 
beach  and  the  long  cannery  shed  and  wharf  were 
black  and  silent.  In  one  of  the  sardine  steamers,  how 
ever,  the  cabin  windows  glimmered  and  a  lantern 
glowed  on  deck  like  a  firefly.  Ensign  Walters  sent  two 
of  his  men  to  patrol  the  village  road,  and  bade  the 
others  follow  him.  Near  the  cannery  two  more  were 
detached  to  watch  the  exits  from  the  building  and  the 
wharf.  The  ensign  took  Glennan  with  him  and  they 
fetched  a  stealthy  circuit  in  search  of  Mr.  Guy  Web 
ber  Kline's  roadster.  So  far  as  they  were  able  to  dis 
cover,  he  had  not  arrived. 

"The  only  way  to  get  out  to  the  end  of  the  wharf 
is  through  the  cannery  shed,"  announced  Glennan, 
after  vanishing  for  a  brief  tour.  "  And  the  building  is 
locked  up  to-night.  Breaking  into  it  will  make  the 
dickens  of  a  racket.  The  steamer  that  is  all  lit  up  is 
Cap'n  Axel  Johnson's.  She  is  in  the  outside  berth. 
And  they  are  getting  steam  on  her.  See  the  sparks 
whirling  out  of  her  funnel?" 

"You  can  swim,  I  presume?  How's  the  tide?"  sug 
gested  the  plucky  ensign. 

"High  water,  and  there's  fifteen  feet  at  the  outer 
end  of  the  wharf.  I  can  swim  like  a  duck,  but  the 
water  is  some  cold." 

"I  am  no  Annette  Kellerman,  but  I  guess  I  can 
make  it,  Glennan.  Any  way  to  climb  up  after  we  get 
there?" 

"A  ladder.  That's  all  right.  And  we  can  stow  our 
selves  behind  that  pile  of  sardine  cases,  within  a  few 


330  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

feet  of  the  steamer.  You  are  a  good  sport,  Mr. 
Walters." 

"I  am  pleased  to  hear  you  say  so,"  gravely  an 
swered  the  ensign  as  he  removed  his  blouse.  "Such 
an  adventure  as  this  is  genuinely  entertaining." 

They  kicked  off  their  shoes,  stuck  the  automatic 
pistols  in  their  trousers  pockets,  and  waded  into  the 
water  which  lapped  the  beach  beside  the  long  shed. 
The  teeth  of  Ensign  Walters  were  chattering  violently 
as  he  advanced,  for  his  physique  might  have  been 
tailed  skinny,  but  there  was  no  hesitation.  Keeping 
close  to  the  pilings  of  the  wharf  so  that  they  were 
safely  screened  from  above,  they  felt  the  water  deepen 
until  it  was  necessary  to  swim  or  paddle  with  infinite 
pains  in  order  to  avoid  splashing.  Groping  from  one 
slippery  timber  or  splintered  plank  to  the  next,  Glen- 
nan  served  as  pilot  until  his  fingers  clutched  the 
ladder  which  led  upward  to  the  wharf.  He  hauled 
himself  out  and  lent  a  hand  to  the  ensign,  who  was 
almost  benumbed  and  exhausted.  He  had  never  tried 
to  swim  as  far  in  his  life.  The  judgment  of  the  Golden 
Rod's  crew  concerning  Mr.  Ambrose  J.  Walters  was 
correct.  He  would  stand  the  gaff. 

Undiscovered,  these  amphibious  pilgrims  doubled 
themselves  behind  the  stuff  heaped  on  the  wharf  and 
shivered,  but  not  with  fear.  They  tried  to  interpret 
the  sounds  which  came  from  the  lighted  steamer.  The 
crew  was  awake  and  moving  about.  Glennan  nudged 
the  ensign  at  recognizing  the  heavy  voice  of  Captain 
Axel  Johnson,  who  was  in  a  surly  temper.  He  cursed 
a  man  and  threatened  to  knock  him  down.  In  the 


THE  RED  SECTOR  331 

midst  of  his  oaths  he  let  slip  a  foreign  phrase  or  two, 
and  Mr.  Walters  whispered: 

"How  careless!  That  language  was  made  in  Ger 
many." 

Glennan  chuckled  and  raised  his  head  to  look  at  the 
steamer  which  was  only  a  few  yards  distant.  The 
darkness  obscured  him.  A  lantern  moved  on  the  fore- 
deck,  casting  a  shadowy  circle  of  illumination.  It  re 
vealed  the  black  square  of  an  open  hatch  and  a  swing 
ing  derrick  boom.  The  captain  was  bending  over  the 
hatch,  giving  orders  to  men  at  work  in  the  hold  be 
low.  Glennan  stiffened  like  a  pointer  dog.  That  der 
rick  boom  had  been  rigged  since  afternoon.  It  was 
designed  to  handle  some  kind  of  heavy  cargo,  not  for 
the  regular  business  of  a  sardine  boat. 

A  man  came  out  of  the  cannery  shed  and  swung 
himself  aboard  the  steamer.  He  was  a  stranger  to 
Glennan,  but  looked  unlike  a  mariner  or  fisherman 
and  might  have  been  the  manager,  Boardman.  The 
captain  greeted  him  with  a  certain  deference  and  they 
presently  went  into  the  cabin.  The  fore-deck  was 
deserted  for  the  moment,  and  Ensign  Walters  was 
about  to  sneak  aboard  on  the  chance  of  eavesdrop 
ping,  but  Glennan  detained  him. 

"Steady  as  you  are,  if  you  please,  sir.  I  thought  I 
heard  the  hum  of  a  motor  —  coming  from  the  village. 
It  may  be  Kline.  Will  it  do  any  harm  to  wait  a  little?  " 

"Right  you  are.  This  is  big  stuff,  and  I  don't  want 
to  queer  it." 

"I  think  I  am  getting  wise  to  their  game,  sir.  Never 
mind.  I'll  explain  later." 


332  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

The  wind  had  freshened  from  the  land,  but  it  failed 
to  bring  the  sound  of  a  motor,  and  it  seemed  likely 
that  Guy  Webber  Kline  had  left  his  car  at  some  dis 
tance  from  the  harbor.  The  two  seamen  who  patrolled 
the  road  had  been  told  to  remain  unseen  and  to  per 
mit  any  stranger  to  pass,  if  he  were  bound  toward  the 
landing.  Let  him  enter  the  trap  and  then  spring  it. 
Time  dragged  interminably  while  the  dripping  ad 
venturers  crouched  in  their  hiding-place  and  awaited 
the  turn  of  events.  At  length  a  figure  flitted  rapidly 
from  the  shed  and  descended  to  the  steamer  with 
light-footed  agility.  Without  pausing  he  crossed  the 
deck  and  entered  the  cabin.  One  glimpse  was  enough 
to  identify  the  dapper,  capable  engineer  who  was  so 
absorbed  in  construction  work  that  he  could  not 
possibly  leave  Spring  Haven. 

Ensign  Walters  was  elated,  but  perplexed.  It  was 
essential  that  he  should  get  information  of  the  secret 
conference  which  he  felt  certain  was  a  criminal  con 
spiracy  of  some  sort,  but  his  first  notion  of  concealing 
himself  aboard  the  steamer  seemed  unwise.  The  risk 
of  detection  was  too  great.  To  bungle  was  to  spoil  the 
show.  He  could  return  ashore  or  send  Glennan  to  sum 
mon  the  other  men  and  rush  the  steamer  in  the  hope 
of  finding  documents  or  other  evidence  in  the  cabin. 
This  would  be  a  high-handed  procedure  for  a  naval 
officer,  and  unless  he  could  prove  his  case  the  conse 
quences  might  be  serious. 

While  he  wrestled  with  the  problem,  the  lantern 
was  picked  up  from  the  steamer's  fore-deck  and  dis 
appeared  down  the  open  hatch.  Young  Glennan, 


THE  RED  SECTOR  333 

quick-witted  and  reckless,  perceived  an  opportunity. 
It  might  offer  a  way  out  of  the  dilemma. 

"You  and  I  can't  raid  the  party,  sir,"  he 
murmured.  "The  whole  crew  would  pile  on  us. 
They're  rough-necks,  every  man  of  'em.  Let  me 
take  a  look  into  that  hold.  They  can't  see  me  from 
below." 

The  ensign  nodded  assent.  He  had  found  Glennan 
level-headed  for  his  years,  and  this  was  his  personally 
conducted  affair,  in  a  way.  The  youngster  dodged 
from  behind  the  barrier  of  boxes  and  chain  cable  and 
wriggled  over  the  string-piece  of  the  wharf.  Wrapping 
an  arm  around  the  steamer's  jack-staff,  he  slid  to  the 
deck  and  his  bare  feet  pattered  to  the  coaming  of  the 
hatch.  Safely  shrouded  in  gloom,  he  peered  down  into 
what  should  have  been  an  empty  hold.  There  was 
cargo  in  it,  however,  and  two  lanterns  shed  light 
enough  for  Glennan  to  conclude  that  Captain  Axel 
Johnson's  steamer  was  not  solely  interested  in  sar 
dines.  He  suppressed  an  exclamation  and  fled  for  the 
wharf  no  more  than  an  instant  before  the  cabin  door 
opened  and  the  three  men  came  out  of  it.  They  moved 
forward  to  the  open  hatch,  gazed  into  it,  and  the  cap 
tain  ordered  his  sailors  out  of  the  hold.  The  cover  was 
clapped  on  and  bolted  down,  after  which  Mr.  Guy 
Webber  Kline  glanced  over  several  papers,  appeared 
to  check-mark  them  with  a  pencil,  replaced  them  in 
an  envelope,  and  returned  it  to  Captain  Axel  John 
son.  There  was  a  ceremonious  hand-shake  during 
which  both  of  them  bowed  stiffly  from  the  waist,  and 
Mr.  Kline  said  in  guarded  tones: 


334 SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Good  luck  to  you,  Captain.  Auf  wiedersehn.  A 
quick  voyage  and  plenty  of  sardines,  eh?" 

Ensign  Walters  was  no  longer  perplexed.  He  told 
Glennan  to  make  for  the  shore  and  endeavor  to  reach 
the  two  seamen  guarding  the  road  before  Kline  was 
held  up  by  them.  They  were  to  let  him  pass  un 
molested,  and  then  make  for  the  path  to  their  own 
boat  at  the  double-quick. 

"The  Government  may  wish  to  give  Kline  some 
more  rope,"  he  rapidly  explained,  "and  I  don't  pro 
pose  to  gum  the  cards.  There  is  more  to  it  than  this 
one  sardine  factory,  unless  I  guess  wrong." 

"And  we  look  after  this  steamer,"  hopefully  replied 
Glennan.  "If  I  mix  it  up  with  that  bucko  skipper  I'll 
hit  him  with  something  hard." 

Expeditiously  the  ensign  followed  to  round  up  his 
men  and  put  them  aboard  the  Golden  Rod  in  all  pos 
sible  haste.  He  had  very  little  to  say,  but  the  feeling 
was  strong  that  this  tame  night's  work  might  have 
a  livelier  finish.  They  raced  along  the  dusky  path  and 
tumbled  over  the  boulders  and  were  short  of  breath 
when  they  laid  hold  of  the  gunwales  and  dragged  the 
boat  down  the  shingle  into  the  gentle  surf.  The  oars 
jumped  into  the  thole-pins  and  five  sturdy  backs 
surged  into  it  as  the  keel  floated  clear.  The  ensign  was 
unwilling  to  show  a  signal  rocket,  although  he  feared 
the  Golden  Rod  might  fail  to  find  him.  And  he  was 
desperately  anxious  to  be  heading  seaward  before  the 
sardine  steamer  moved  out  of  the  harbor.  Mike  Fes- 
senden  was  a"  vigil  ant  ship -keeper,  however,  and  as  the 
boat's  crew  paused  to  listen  they  heard  the  muffled 


THE  RED  SECTOR  335 

beat  of  the  Golden  Rod's  motors  off  to  port  as  she 
moved  on  the  appointed  course  between  the  island 
and  the  coastwise  point.  The  ensign  showed  him  one 
flash  from  a  pocket  light  and  the  patrol  vessel  swung 
over  to  pick  up  her  boat. 

Glennan  darted  into  the  wheel-house  and  studied 
the  chart.  Success  or  failure  hung  upon  his  skill  and 
judgment  as  a  navigator  and  pilot.  It  was  to  be  a 
blind  game  of  hide-and-seek.  The  tide  had  turned  at 
the  flood  and  he  could  take  the  Golden  Rod  through 
the  short  cut  of  Parlin  Thoroughfare  by  feeling  his 
way.  This  would  avoid  following  the  steamer  out  in 
the  main  channel  and  so  diminish  the  chance  of  de 
tection. 

"But  how  do  we  know  he  intends  to  go  out  past 
Thorpe's  Island  light?"  demanded  Ensign  Walters. 
"He  may  turn  to  the  north'ard  and  then  you  lose 
him.  I  should  say  to  stick  to  his  trail." 

"And  let  him  hear  us  coming,  sir?  If  he  knows  he  is 
watched  it's  all  off  with  any  of  his  queer  tricks.  He 
will  drift  along  and  put  his  nets  out  and  give  us  the 
laugh." 

"Well,  it  is  your  dope,"  reasonably  admitted  the 
commander.  "And  I  guess  you  will  have  to  go  to 
it.  But  if  you  draw  a  blank  and  it's  all  a  false 
alarm,  I  shall  give  you  particular  and  unqualified 
hades." 

The  Golden  Rod  withdrew  in  a  coy  and  shrinking 
manner  from  the  fairway  between  the  islands  and 
drifted  silently  until  the  running  lights  of  the  sardine 
boat  came  into  view  outside  the  harbor.  She  was  a 


336  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

powerfully  engined  craft  and  apparently  had  no  time 
to  waste  on  this  trip.  Snoring  along  at  a  good  twelve 
knots,  she  swung  to  pick  up  the  range  lights  for  the 
easterly  course  and  the  open  sea.  Glennan's  mind  was 
easier.  There  was  no  danger  of  losing  her  if  he  went 
through  Parlin  Thoroughfare.  Deftly  he  steered  for 
the  entrance  while  Ensign  Walters  evolved  strategy 
and  tactics.  He  had  sailed  with  fewer  men  than  usual, 
and  if  it  came  to  close  quarters  his  crew  would  be  out 
numbered  at  least  two  to  one.  However,  this  was  a 
trifling  detail.  In  his  favor  was  the  spirit  and  disci 
pline  of  the  United  States  Navy,  not  to  mention  the 
popgun  mounted  in  the  bow.  It  was  his  shrewd  con 
jecture  that  the  ship's  company  of  Captain  Axel 
Johnson  had  been  selected  for  something  else  than 
their  experience  in  harvesting  sardines. 

An  hour  later  this  impetuous  little  dreadnought 
emerged  from  the  short  cut  without  knocking  her 
bottom  out  or  stranding  high  and  dry.  Glennan  would 
have  thought  it  lunacy  to  attempt  the  passage  at 
night,  but  now  he  had  to  get  on  with  the  war  and  if  a 
man  expected  to  play  it  safe  he  had  better  stay  ashore. 
Again  the  Golden  Rod  stopped  her  motors  and  drifted 
with  the  ebbing  tide.  Soon  the  steamer's  lights  passed 
a  mile  away  and  she  was  bound  out  by  Thorpe's 
Island,  beyond  any  doubt. 

Now  the  patrol  boat  was  compelled  to  follow,  but 
no  lights  betrayed  her  position.  The  wind  favored  her, 
for  it  was  almost  ahead  and  the  muffled  beat  of  the 
exhaust  was  carried  astern.  For  two  hours  the  chase 
continued  and  the  sardine  boat  was  drawing  steadily 


THE  RED  SECTOR  337 

away  until  her  masthead  light  was  no  more  than  a 
faint  spark. 

"I'll  find  her  again,"  Glennan  confidently  assured 
Ensign  Walters.  "If  she  slows  up  later,  we  don't 
want  to  run  too  close.  She  may  douse  her  lights  at 
any  time,  sir." 

"And  then  it's  a  needle  in  a  haystack,"  grumbled 
the  other. 

Glennan  glanced  at  the  compass  and  then  at  the 
sets  of  cross-bearings  which  he  had  marked  in  pencil 
on  the  chart.  He  thought  he  knew  where  to  find 
the  sardine  boat  in  case  she  eluded  him.  Thorpe's 
Island  light  gleamed  like  a  star,  ten  miles  to  sea 
ward,  when  Captain  Axel  Johnson's  steamer  became 
suddenly  invisible.  The  masthead  lamp  had  been 
extinguished.  The  vessel  was  utterly  blotted  out  in 
the  night. 

"That  settles  it!"  cried  Glennan.  "Now  we  know 
what  she  is." 

"Very  suspicious,"  agreed  the  ensign.  "I  am  justi 
fied  in  firing  a  shot  across  her  bows  and  boarding  her 
for  examination." 

"We'll  catch  her  in  the  act,  sir,  if  you  approve.  I 
want  to  steer  inshore,  close  to  Thorpe's  Island,  until 
we  pick  up  the  red  sector." 

"Ah,  ha  —  and  then  work  out  along  the  edge  of  it," 
cried  the  ensign,  with  unwonted  excitement.  "I  get 
you,  my  boy !  Very  stupid  of  me  for  scolding  you  last 
trip  when  you  were  rehearsing  this  nautical  cake- 
walk.  But  I  did  n't  understand,  of  course." 

The  Golden  Rod  went  her  owTn  way,  regardless  of 


338  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

her  quarry.  Slowly  she  crept  toward  Thorpe's  Island 
until  the  brilliant  light  shifted  and  the  paths  of  white 
and  ruby  radiance  were  sharply  defined.  Then  the 
patrol  boat  turned  and  carefully  advanced  with  no 
more  than  steerage- way,  noiseless,  invisible.  Mile 
after  mile  she  moved  in  this  manner  and  passed 
the  first  set  of  cross-bearings  without  sighting  the 
steamer.  Glennan's  faith  was  unshaken.  He  would 
find  the  vessel  at  the  other  intersection,  where  the 
red  sector  crossed  the  light  from  the  revolving  lenses 
of  the  Sow  and  Pigs. 

The  crew  of  the  patrol  boat  comprehended  that 
young  Glennan  was  not  groping  at  random  on  this 
darkened  sea.  They  were  taut  and  ready  for  whatever 
might  befall,  and  for  the  first  time  they  vividly  real 
ized  that  the  war  zone  began  on  their  side  of  the  At 
lantic.  Far  out  from  the  islands  the  Golden  Rod  moved 
like  a  shadow,  until  the  light  on  Thorpe's  Island  had 
dropped  almost  to  the  horizon  and  the  red  sector  was 
fading.  Then  she  halted  to  listen.  There  was  no  sound 
of  a  steamer's  engines,  but  faint  and  clear  came  the 
musical  creak  of  ropes  running  through  blocks.  Glen- 
nan  leaned  from  the  wheel-house  window  and  said  to 
Ensign  Walters: 

"A  derrick  boom,  sir,  unless  a  schooner  is  trimming 
sheets  dead  ahead." 

"Hold  her  as  she  is,  then.  If  it  is  a  derrick  boom, 
Captain  Axel  Johnson  is  hoisting  something  out  of 
the  for'ard  hold." 

The  gun  crew  went  to  stations  in  the  bow  of  the 
Golden  Rod.  Again  they  heard  the  whine  of  sheaves  in 


THE  RED  SECTOR  339 

their  pulley  blocks,  and  then  the  splash  of  some  large 
and  weighty  object. 

"Caught  with  the  goods!"  cried  the  ensign.  "You 
win,  Glennan.  Full  speed  ahead  and  all  hands  stand 
by  to  board.  If  they  resist,  treat  'em  rough,  boys." 

The  Golden  Rod  churned  a  foaming  wake  as  she 
shot  forward,  regardless  of  the  roaring  song  of  the 
motors.  Presently  the  shape  of  a  vessel  loomed  vague 
and  black  no  more  than  a  few  hundred  feet  distant. 
Ensign  Walters  switched  on  the  searchlight  and  the 
sardine  boat  was  revealed  in  brilliant  detail,  picked 
out  against  the  curtain  of  night  like  a  motion  picture 
on  a  screen.  Some  of  her  men  were  grouped  around 
the  forward  hatch  and  the  rigging  of  the  derrick  boom 
dangled  above  their  heads.  The  burly  figure  of  Cap 
tain  Axel  Johnson  was  conspicuous.  Two  other  men 
were  in  a  skiff  which  floated  a  short  distance  from  the 
steamer.  In  the  stern-sheets  were  several  bits  of  wood 
painted  white  with  coils  of  line  attached,  such  as  are 
used  to  buoy  lobster-pots. 

For  an  instant  all  activity  ceased.  Bedazzled  and 
amazed,  this  crew  was  bound  by  a  spell.  It  was 
broken  by  a  bellowing  uproar  from  Captain  Axel 
Johnson,  who  leaped  for  his  wheel-house  and  jerked 
the  bell-pull  to  signal  the  engine-room.  The  jingling 
alarum  carried  to  the  Golden  Rod  whose  commander 
was  aware  that  the  steamer  was  about  to  forge  ahead. 
Her  bow  was  aimed  straight  for  the  fragile  patrol  boat 
as  it  happened,  and  the  tall  prow,  steel-shod  and 
ponderous,  was  gathering  a  menacing  momentum. 

"By  God,  he  means  to  run  us  down!"  said  Ensign 


340  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

Ambrose  Walters,  quite  unemotionally.  "Left  rudder, 
Glennan,  and  half -speed.  I  shall  have  to  call  his  bluff, 
the  big  counterfeit." 

The  steamer  also  veered,  not  to  pass  clear,  but  to 
meet  the  maneuver  and  compel  a  collision.  It  ap 
peared  to  be  her  skipper's  intention  to  drown  the 
patrol  boat  with  all  hands  as  a  desperate  hope  of 
escape.  In  the  glare  of  their  own  searchlight  he  could 
see  the  bluejackets  poised  at  the  gun  in  the  bow. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  Golden  Rod  for  a  mer 
chant  vessel. 

"Slow  her  down!"  yelled  Ensign  Walters,  "and 
make  fast  when  she  bumps!  Then  follow  me!" 

He  was  unwilling  to  rake  the  steamer  with  shell  at 
point-blank  range.  It  was  too  much  like  murder,  and 
he  had  yet  to  prove  that  this  was  an  enemy  vessel 
engaged  in  outlawed  traffic.  He  would  offer  a  chance 
of  surrender.  His  plan  was  to  come  up  alongside, 
which  would  have  been  feasible  if  the  steamer  had 
remained  motionless  or  even  fled  from  him.  But  she 
was  lunging  straight  at  him  and  the  lanky  ensign  was 
in  no  temper  to  dodge  and  run.  Young  Glennan 
needed  no  more  advice.  As  a  helmsman  he  was  pitting 
his  nerve  and  skill  against  the  bogus  Dane,  who,  it 
was  fair  to  surmise,  had  a  severe  headache. 

The  two  vessels  met  in  a  glancing  impact  which 
shook  the  Golden  Rod  as  though  she  had  rammed  a 
cliff.  The  steamer's  bow  thrust  her  aside  and  then 
they  swung  locked  together,  for  the  ensign  was  over 
the  bulwark  in  a  flash  and  the  bight  of  line  in  his  fist 
was  tossed  over  the  hawser  bitts.  At  his  heels  was  old 


THE  RED  SECTOR  341 

Mike  Fessenden  with  a  dory  anchor  as  a  grapple.  The 
Golden  Rod  had  listed  as  the  water  gushed  in  through 
her  dented  and  broken  plates.  The  machinist's  mate 
scrambled  up  to  join  the  boarding  party,  announcing 
that  the  tin  warship  was  filling  like  a  basket  and  in 
his  opinion  she  was  out  of  luck. 

This  was  a  matter  of  trifling  importance.  History 
had  taught  Ensign  Ambrose  J.  Walters  that  if  your 
vessel  was  sunk  under  you,  the  trick  was  to  cap 
ture  one  from  the  enemy  and  transfer  your  flag.  There 
was  nothing  to  suggest  a  rising  young  lawyer  as  he 
pranced  into  the  thick  of  the  steamer's  crew  with  his 
bluejackets  massed  behind  him.  They  were  fighting 
with  fists  and  clubs,  in  honest  Anglo-Saxon  fashion, 
until  Captain  Axel  Johnson  wrenched  free  of  the 
mass  and  emptied  an  automatic  pistol  into  the  strug 
gling  groups.  It  was  a  sort  of  berserker  rage,  for  he 
wounded  one  of  his  own  men  besides  two  bluejack 
ets  who  staggered  to  a  cleared  space  to  stanch  the 
blood. 

Ensign  Walters  could  see  no  reason  for  gentle 
measures.  He  forbade  his  men  to  shoot,  but  he  ham 
mered  his  way  nearer  the  bloodthirsty  skipper  and 
deliberately  put  a  bullet  through  his  shoulder.  The 
courage  of  Captain  Axel  Johnson  was  not  of  the  stub 
bornly  heroic  kind.  The  ensign  was  standing  over 
him,  declaring  that  he  would  kill  him  unless  he  threw 
up  his  hands.  Sullenly  the  bully  dropped  his  own 
pistol  and  became  a  non-combatant.  Several  of  his 
men  were  of  tougher  metal,  and  they  fought  tena 
ciously,  but  the  boarding  party  held  together  like  a 


342  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

well-drilled  football  team  and  shoved  ahead  foot  by 
foot. 

Driven  against  the  forward  deck-house,  the  rough 
necks  were  compelled  to  scatter  and  then  their  cause 
was  lost.  Mike  Fessenden  wielded  a  short  length  of 
lead  pipe  with  a  loop  in  one  end,  and  for  a  fat  man 
bowed  down  with  years  he  inflicted  an  amazing 
amount  of  damage.  It  was  he  who  suggested  kicking 
the  enemy  into  the  open  hatch  as  fast  as  they  weak 
ened,  which  procedure  disposed  of  the  prisoners  with 
methodical  promptitude.  Having  cleared  the  decks 
after  a  series  of  bruising  tussles,  the  crew  of  the  Golden 
Rod  took  stock  of  its  wounds  and  bruises.  Painful,  but 
not  serious,  was  the  verdict  of  Ensign  Walters,  who 
now  found  time  to  look  for  the  Golden  Rod.  The  in 
domitable  patrol  boat  had  vanished  from  the  surface 
of  the  sea. 

"An  excellent  finish,"  observed  the  ensign.  "I  shall 
be  court-martialed  for  losing  her,  but  this  has  been  a 
gorgeous  night." 

He  then  swung  a  lantern  into  the  forward  hatch  to 
inspect  his  bag  of  prisoners,  excepting  Captain  Axel 
Johnson,  who  had  been  locked  in  his  own  cabin  with 
the  steamer's  cook  as  nurse  and  surgeon.  The  ensign 
surveyed  them  with  evident  pleasure  and  earnestly 
damned  them  for  dirty  traitors  who  had  sold  their 
souls  for  wages.  What  interested  him  even  more  was 
the  sight  of  several  great  steel  drums  or  barrels  of  at 
least  three  hundred  gallons  capacity.  They  were  up 
ended  in  a  row  and  chocked  with  plank  to  prevent 
sliding  in  a  sea-way. 


THE  RED  SECTOR  343 

"Ah,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  chortled  Ensign  Wal 
ters,  "the  evidence  is  in  your  hands.  The  Navy  rests 
its  case.  Crude  oil  —  fuel  for  submarines  —  and,  let 
me  see  —  they  had  already  hoisted  out  two  drums 
of  it  and  sunk  them  to  the  bottom.  Glennan,  ahoy! 
Come  a-running.  This  is  deucedly  clever.  Buying  con 
trol  of  Maine  sardine  factories  in  order  to  use  the 
steamers  for  their  hellish  purpose.  If  you  had  n't  been 
such  a  bright  young  Johnny-on-the-spot,  this  game 
might  have  been  carried  on  for  months." 

"I  had  a  partner,  sir"  —  and  Glennan  blushed  in 
the  dark.  "She  —  that  is  to  say  —  my  partner  did 
most  of  it." 

"Do  you  mind  introducing  me?  I  should  consider 
it  a  distinguished  honor.  By  the  way,  how  much 
water  is  there  where  the  sardine  boat  was  dropping 
the  oil  drums  overboard?" 

"Not  more  than  forty  feet,  sir.  It  is  on  the  Little 
John  Bank.  A  diver  can  explore  the  bottom  easily 
enough  and  make  fast  to  those  drums." 

"By  Jove,  we  forgot  those  two  pirates  in  the  skiff, 
with  the  bunch  of  lobster-pot  buoys.  They  were 
marking  the  spot,  eh?" 

"Of  course,  sir.  A  German  submarine  could  run  in 
at  night  and  pick  up  her  ranges  by  the  lights,  and 
then  find  the  lobster  buoys  at  daylight.  Then  she 
could  submerge  until  the  next  night,  sit  on  the  bot 
tom,  and  come  up  to  put  a  diver  over  and  let  him 
make  fast  to  the  drums  and  hook  them  up." 

"We  had  better  put  after  that  skiff,"  observed  the 
ensign.  "  Does  a  boat  of  this  sort  carry  a  searchlight?  " 


344  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

"Usually,  for  setting  and  hauling  nets  on  clear 
nights  if  the  fish  are  running  close  at  hand." 

"Then  it's  up  to  the  machinist's  mate  to  get  way 
on  this  captured  cruiser." 

They  picked  up  the  skiff  and  the  two  disconsolate 
pirates  after  a  brief  hunt.  Under  threat  of  punishment 
they  admitted  having  set  two  buoys  at  which  Ensign 
Walters  became  so  jubilant  as  to  impair  his  dignity. 
He  had  only  to  wait  for  daybreak,  make  certain  tnat 
the  spot  was  accurately  designated,  and  then  steam 
for  Spring  Haven  with  his  booty  and  his  captives.  A 
report  to  the  rear  admiral  commanding  the  naval  dis 
trict  and  the  chapter  would  be  handsomely  finished. 
Mr.  Walters  was  a  bit  uncertain  in  his  mind  whether 
he  would  be  praised  or  censured,  but  he  unselfishly 
rejoiced  that  his  acting  navigator,  Able  Seaman 
Howard  Glennan,  was  bound  to  acquire  merit  and 
reward. 

"The  admiral  may  be  annoyed  to  find  that  the 
Golden  Rod  is  stricken  off  the  active  list,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "but  it  has  always  been  esteemed  a  difficult 
task  to  make  an  omelet  without  breaking  eggs." 

Two  days  later  the  admiral  himself  was  in  a  gun 
boat  at  anchor  on  Little  John  Bank,  with  the  tall 
shaft  of  Thorpe's  Island  light  lifting  like  a  slender 
wand  against  the  sky-line.  Guided  by  the  white  bits 
of  wood  which  floated  as  buoys  and  seemed  to  mark 
the  presence  of  innocent  lobster-pots,  a  Navy  diver 
prowled  on  the  sandy  bottom  until  he  was  able  to  slip 
a  sling  around  a  great  steel  drum.  When  this  was 

hoisted  aboard  the  gunboat,  he  made  fast  to  another 

\ 


THE  RED  SECTOR  345 

drum,  and  the  Navy  gained,  without  further  cost,  six 
hundred  gallons  of  fuel  oil. 

No  more  than  a  week  had  passed  when  Ensign  Am 
brose  J.  Walters  received  formal  notification  that  he 
had  been  promoted  to  the  rank  of  lieutenant,  junior 
grade.  It  was  hinted  unofficially  that  he  might  expect 
a  larger  vessel  later  in  the  year. 

Seaman  Glennan  was  at  the  training  station  in 
Spring  Haven  when  the  admiral  came  to  inspect  the 
construction  work  of  the  new  buildings.  Mr.  Guy 
Webber  Kline  was  not  there  to  receive  him.  Another 
engineer  had  replaced  him.  Glennan  wondered  at  this 
and  vainly  sought  information.  It  remained  a  mystery 
until  the  admiral  sent  for  this  young  able  seaman 
and  eyed  him  quizzically  from  beneath  heavy,  gray 
brows.  Glennan  was  rather  appalled  to  face  such  a 
great  man,  but  he  stood  at  attention  and  held  his 
chin  up. 

"If  you  had  one  wish,  what  would  it  be?"  inquired 
the  admiral,  with  a  fatherly  smile. 

"Overseas  duty  in  anything  that  floats,"  rapped 
out  the  youth. 

"Granted.  You  are  letting  me  off  easy.  A  destroyer 
preferred?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  dream  of  it.  That  is  all  in  the  world  I 
want." 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  go  as  a  petty  officer. 
Could  you  stand  as  much  happiness  as  that?" 

"Well,  I  think  I  can  carry  it  without  busting,  sir. 
I  am  a  thousand  times  obliged  and  — ' 

"The  obligation  is  quite  the  other  way,  Glennan. 


346  SHIPS  ACROSS  THE  SEA 

You  are  very  curious  to  know  something  about  Kline 
—  the  man  you  suspected  because  he  was  flavored 
like  a  sardine.  The  firm  which  employed  him  was  mis 
led  and  deceived.  They  are  wholly  guiltless.  Ahem  — 
Mr.  Kline  is  safely  taken  care  of.  He  has  been  re 
moved  beyond  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Navy.  Perhaps 
it  is  well  to  ask  no  more  questions  about  that  fishy 
gentleman." 

When  Glennan  climbed  the  headland  to  say  good 
bye  to  Barbara  Downes  before  he  sailed  for  Queens- 
town  in  a  newly  commissioned  destroyer,  he  had 
something  vastly  important  to  tell  her,  but  lacked  the 
courage  to  say  it.  There  was  provocation  enough 
when  she  exclaimed,  as  they  met: 

"Is  this  the  end  of  the  partnership,  Howard?  I 
thought  we  did  awfully  well  at  it." 

"That  is  a  wide,  wet  ocean  to  put  between  us,"  he 
dolefully  returned. 

"And  I  thought  destroyer-men  were  so  audacious ! " 
she  murmured,  as  though  thinking  aloud. 

"I'm  not  broken  in  yet,"  was  the  lame  excuse.  He 
was  conscious  of  his  wretched  cowardice. 

Miss  Barbara  Downes  regarded  him  intently  for  a 
moment,  laughed,  and  suggested: 

"Will  you  please  come  into  the  little  parlor  with 
me —  the  room  where  you  waited  with  Mr.  Kline?" 

He  followed  meekly  and  was  tongue-tied  until  they 
were  in  front  of  the  fireplace  and  the  door  was  closed. 
Then  Barbara  commanded,  with  profound  earnest 
ness: 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  Howard  Glennan,  and  don't 


THE  RED  SECTOR  347 

you  dare  fib.  Sniff  my  hair  and  see  if  you  find  any 
trace  of  the  flavor  of  sardines." 

Dutifully  he  bent  over  her  and  her  face  was  turned 
up  to  his.  Her  dusky  hair  held  its  own  fragrance  and 
he  was  about  to  declare  as  much,  but  instead  of  that 
he  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  It  was  inevitable,  unavoid 
able,  and  required  no  explanation. 

"  There  /"  said  Barbara  Downes,  "I  am  glad  to  see 
you  realize,  Petty  Officer  Glennan,  that  the  Navy 
expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty." 


THE  END 


flltirrjihr 

(•AMIlNHMilr.  .  MASS 
II    ,    ft    .    A 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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(XD      q«ec    A 

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(F7763slO)476B 

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